


The Tower of Babble, or The Eliot Spencer Will Never Drink Again In His Life Job

by Mizzy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot Spencer should have learned never to drink again after the incident at the Fresher’s Fair with the giant bunny and the empty beer keg. He never learned this vital life lesson, so life has decided to teach him the lesson directly – with Nate’s unavailable unbelievably hot arse, Hardison’s smart phone, and Moreau’s dirty smirk (and dirtier intentions) providing Eliot’s brain with possibly insurmountable obstacles.</p><p>But with his crazy-ass housemates Sophie and Parker, Nate’s past, and Eliot’s insane addiction to Poptarts joining the fray, Eliot may just have a chance of coming out of this with his sanity intact.</p><p>(His dignity, FYI, a lost cause forever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tower of Babble, or The Eliot Spencer Will Never Drink Again In His Life Job

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Big Bang Job 2011.

It's a fact universally acknowledged that an underpaid university administration assistant, when encountered with a list of unsuitable properties and a longer list of teenagers who are about to spend the next three years of their lives either drunk, hung over or cramming  _while_ hung over in the library, well, the administration assistant isn't exactly going to be logical about house assignations.

(This is the only reason Eliot could have ended up with the housemates he has.)

It's also a fact universally acknowledged that at some point in their blossoming university careers, at least one housemate in every houseshare will get a bit confused, possibly even start to think of their housemates as  _not even human_.

Eliot Spencer is pretty sure Alec Hardison has reached this point.

"Eliot,  _no_ ," Hardison says, like he's spent the whole day watching  _One Man and His Dog_  reruns, or possibly even  _Crufts_. They're uni students. It's in the brief for them to watch crazy daytime TV shit. Nearly their whole department is hooked on  _Neighbours_ ; it's practically their  _religion._  (Eliot once used this metaphor in front of Nate, and Eliot is pretty sure he _broke_  Nate for a second, it was worse than that time he had a field trip to Magdalen College and he froze a deer with his camera flash. There are  _worse_  reasons for people to be banned from Oxford University for life, but that's Eliot's reason for his life ban and he's sticking to it.)

Hardison must think he's been housed with dogs. From the state of the kitchen in their houseshare, it's not a leap to see _why_  Hardison thinks they're all dogs, but if Eliot Spencer is a dog, he's a fucking Alsatian and an untrained one at that. Scratch that, he's an Alsatian trained for illegal dog fights but not house trained.

He tells Hardison this, because Eliot's pretty sure he's hit on some mythic epic shit with this realisation, but Hardison looks at him unimpressed. It's probably because Eliot is a dog and not a laptop. If Eliot was a laptop, especially if he was a laptop trained for dog fighting, Hardison would be looking at him like he was a yummy ice-cream, Eliot is  _positive_.

He tells Hardison this as well. Hardison isn't as bowled over by Eliot's obvious genius as he should be, but Eliot's not too worried. Not everyone can be as awesome as he is, after all.

"Eliot, you can't be serious-" Hardison says, and although it's whiny and annoying it's not a dog command so Eliot tries to pay it more attention.

"I am serious. I am totally serious. Do I not look serious?"

"The pink cowboy hat is a red herring if that's the look you were going for."

"Shut up, I look hot." The room tilts a little. Eliot frowns at it and tells it to be still.

"We should get you to bed," Hardison says.

"That's sort of the point," Eliot says. "That's the overall effect I was going for."

" _Alone_ ," Hardison says, for the millionth time that night. Maybe, Eliot thinks, Hardison's really jonesing to sing  _Alone_  for karaoke or something.

"He totally wants me," Eliot says, waving his hand over at the corner. "Moreau over- you get it? Moreover? Moreau over?"

"I get it," Hardison says behind tightly gritted teeth. "Believe me, I get it. But you're drunk, man. Completely wiped. Even if Moreau does want you, you wouldn't be able to get your dick up for a second. You don't want him to think you have erectile dysfunction, do you?"

"I don't have to be hard to be fucked," Eliot informs Hardison. Hardison responds by hitting his head against the nearest brick wall repeatedly, which Eliot totally gets, because if he hadn't known that essential sex fact, he'd feel pretty stupid too. "There, there," Eliot says, patting Hardison's shoulder, "it's not your fault your face is so unfortunate that you're still a virgin. One day  _someone_ will pity fuck you."

"Seriously?" Hardison breathes, and although he's looking up at the sky, and rolling his eyes, and it  _seems_  like he's asking the question to God or something, Eliot totally knows Hardison is just looking for reassurance that this epic event will one day occur.

"Seriously," Eliot tells him, as solemnly as he can. He turns to go tell Moreau he has pulled, and frowns. Moreau has gone. "Oh, you see, now look what you made him do. You were a dork and your extreme boring dorkiness has repelled him out of the room."

"Ahuh," Hardison says.

"Like a magnet," Eliot says. "Fucking magnets. How do they even work?"

"They're fucking miracles," Hardison informs him. "Which is something I need to wipe this night from my mind."

"Me too. I want my mind wiped. I was going for Moreau to fuck me so all I had to think about was his spunk, I think he has magic spunk. I was thinking, magic spunk, it would get his ass out of my head when I wank, you know."

"I don't think you're going to get his ass out of your head if it's involved in the process."

"Huh? How is Nate going to be involved in me and Moreau having sex? Hardison, you're drunk."

"This night would be so much better if I was, but Nate? What does Nate have to do with Moreau's magic spunk?" Hardison's face looks like he can't even believe what he's saying, and Eliot completely empathises because it's the smartest thing Hardison has ever even tried to say, and for someone as stupid as Hardison, that much genius in his mouth must hurt.

"Not Nate, Nate's ass. Moreau's magic spunk in my ass might have made me forget about it," Eliot says, in the tone of duh. He's thought it so often that Eliot's pretty sure it must just be up in the air, lodged in everyone's brain, but Hardison's looking as if this information is completely brand new.

"Nate Ford's ass? Our religious, very weird housemate, who thinks a party is something political? That ass?"

"My brain's made of dust," Eliot says.

"Focus, Spencer."

"Oh, Nate. No, Nate. No, Nate's my best friend, I would never- I totally don't- he's-" Eliot's dusty brain clears just a fraction too much, and he turns to Hardison, wincing. "I don't suppose you'll ever, ever forget this night?"

"Not a chance," Hardison says, a hint of glee in his voice now.

"Fuck," Eliot says, and punctuates how screwed he is by throwing up on Hardison's feet. He  _totally_  needs another drink.

\- - -

Either his oft-visited daydream of his youth of running a unicorn farm have succeeded and the herd has escaped into his room and is having a cricket match inside his skull, or it's a hangover from hell. If it's the latter, he should probably start writing that apology to his liver he keeps intending to write.

Eliot stares up at the ceiling through his closed eyelids. He knows he's staring at the ceiling because the university had this policy of painting all their properties the same—lurid white on the ceiling, vomit white on the walls.

Vomit- it's ringing a bell, and Eliot doesn't like the fact that the metaphorical bell in his aching brain has the distinctive tone that only a chorus of "Eliot Made an Arse of Himself Again" possesses. Did he throw up on Hardison? Eliot tries to swallow, and the taste of it—mixed with sour beer and something else he doesn't want to identify—makes him want to vomit again. Now all he has to do is make his body move so he can extract his toothbrush from beneath the pile of clothes he was choosing from last night, squeeze the last inch of toothpaste from his nearly dead Aquafresh, and maybe, just maybe he will feel human enough to try and face what had happened the night before. Scratch that—he also needs coffee, and  _what hell else_  was there to think about—oh, yeah, the very distinctive smell of his unripe armpits. He definitely needs a shower before he knocks out the whole Northern Hemisphere.

Eliot squints blearily at the lurid white ceiling, feeling like someone has poured sand in his eyes again. (He really, really should learn to say no when Parker says "What happens if...?" but he hasn't learned this lesson. Eliot's okay with that, because he's only a First Year, and he's got two and a half years left of education to pay for, and he's pretty sure if they can't teach him to stop eating whatever Parker points him at, or leaping off weird buildings, or wearing bunny ears to lectures, then he's definitely going to sue Bournemouth University and gets his goddamned money back.) He blinks several times, and his aching body growls at him. Breakfast. Totally the greatest plan ever. Eliot knows exactly where his box of Asda's version of Rice Krispies is. He knows if he puts his hand out he can grab hold of it, fuck the concept of milk to the galaxy because calcium is totally overrated, and chug the crispy cereal dry.

Except, when he puts his hand out to grab the box, his hand collides with something warm. And human. And-

"HOLY CRAP."

Eliot's had a thousand different daydreams of how he would wake up in bed with Nathan Ford (oh, shut up, his unicorn daydreams were when he was five, and he's eighteen now, so, okay, he still has the unicorn dreams maybe once a month, but mostly, since the year began, it's been Nate and his ridiculous curls and rough smoker's accent and those blue eyes like the ocean and if Eliot stops thinking like a girl any time soon he's going to throw his balls a parade in celebration) but none of them are anywhere near the reality—he shrieks louder than the time he found a tarantula in his bed (he's learned one lesson—never, ever switch off the wireless router—Hardison's sense of revenge is epic) and falls off Nate's bed, landing on his ass on the carpet.

He only has a second to feel relieved that his ass isn't sore, then a second to feel disappointed that his ass isn't sore (because he's clearly missed a fantastic opportunity, missing memories aside) and a second to feel hopeful (Nate definitely has bottom moments) before Nate wakes up. From the cool air hitting his skin Eliot knows it's nigh on likely that he's naked, but Nate isn't naked, and he opens his mouth to say how unfair that is, and how much easier it would be for Nate to balance that equation, when he realises Nate is smirking at him and that means Eliot  _really_  must have made an ass out of himself last night.

"Morning, cowboy," Nate says.

Eliot flails, and knocks the pink cowboy hat from his head. It disappears into the corner of Nate's strangely tidy room. How he managed to lose his clothes but not the hat he has  _no_  idea. Perhaps he should have listened more in GCSE Science about gravity or something, but he knew he was headed for something Media related and what does science have to do with TV, anyway. (If you ignored  _The Big Bang Theory_  and  _Brainiac: Science Abuse_ and  _How 2_  and all the other raft of scientific programming the digital channels insisted on, and, okay, science has a time and a place, but not in Eliot's aching brain.)

"Wharappened?" Eliot manages, congratulating himself on semi-coherency. The  _more_  coherent sentence that was trying to get out was "I want to lick your chin" and Eliot's pretty sure if he's naked on his ass in Nate's room with no memory of why said event occurred that he's obviously been humiliated enough.

Nate leans forwards and yanks an extra blanket from the bottom of his bed, throwing it at Eliot. Eliot grabs at it gratefully and covers his, oh god, completely naked crotch. "I told you not to go to the Firehouse without me. Good night, huh?" Nate says, in that ridiculously hot knowing voice.

"I. I don't remember," Eliot says, covering himself in the blanket but not moving from his tangled heap on the carpet. "'s why I asked you."

"I was studying. You and Hardison went to Dylan's for the pub quiz, and then someone had the bright idea of going to the Old Firehouse afterwards." Nate pushes himself easily into a sitting up position while Eliot rubs his eyes exaggeratedly; pretending his best he's not leering at Nate's muscles, the curve of his shoulders showing around one of those ridiculous white vests Nate's so fond of. Eliot wants to burn them all. He's only voiced that out loud once, to Parker after she made him drink an absinthe vodka chaser shot, and Parker was totally in on the plan. Then again, Parker just likes burning stuff. When Sophie brought them back 40% proof vodka from her theatre trip to Poland in half term, Parker spent half the night burning half the bottle. It made strange logic until they realised that was  _half a bottle of alcohol gone_ , but by then it was too late. Nate reaches into his bedside cabinet, and brings something out, throwing it at Eliot. Eliot catches it.

"Nectar of the gods," Eliot breathes, cracks it and downs it in one. Thanks to his delicious breath cocktail the Red Bull tastes like feet, but Eliot so doesn't care. Besides, it's better than when Sophie gave him Irn Bru that time—the whole _house_  carefully declared she was only allowed to bring back shortbread or whisky when she goes to see her Gran in Kilmarnock. He downs the lot and then squints at the can. "I can't believe you have this. Isn't this... cheating?"

"God made people, people made Red Bull," Nate says, like he's quoting someone. "Ergo, it's okay to use Red Bull to help me study."

"People invented mornings, though, I'm pretty sure," Eliot says, "and they're the worst thing  _ever_."

Nate chuckles low in his throat. "Think you can find your way back to your own room? Or do you still have alcohol in your system?"

"Can't I stay fused to your carpet forever? I'd make a pretty good carpet ornament."

"I suppose that answers  _that_  question. Carpet ornament?"

"Like for the lawn. But indoors."

"I've seen you eat, Eliot. I couldn't afford you." Nate swings his legs from the bed and gives Eliot a nudge with his foot. "Go. Room, shower,  _clothes_."

Eliot wrinkles his nose. "That bad?"

"How about we designate bad as a generous descriptor," Nate says, raising his eyebrows. "If you go now, I'll put the coffee maker on."

"You would make the best housewife  _ever_ ," Eliot says dreamily, willing his legs to move before the mental visual of that statement kicked in and yeah, Nate in one of those frilly aprons and nothing much else, that's a good one-

"Did I say coffee? I meant the grease from the grease pan, mixed with fried bacon rinds and overcooked scrambled eggs and bleach-"

"I think my armpit might taste better," Eliot says queasily, finally managing to get to his feet, the blanket still wrapped around him.

"In no universe  _ever_ ," Nate tells him. Eliot frowns, but turns to go for the shower before he does something else universally stupid, like pushing the curl in the middle of Nate's forehead to one side. "Eliot, aren't you forgetting something?"

Eliot turns, and for one amazingly ridiculous second he thinks Nate means "forgotten to kiss me good morning" and so his legs go a little bit jelly even as he's mentally calling himself a moron, but when he turns around Nate is wearing his pink, 'ironic' cowboy hat. Eliot grabs it, stalks out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster (it can't be much) and mentally adds the hat to his growing list of things Parker can burn.

\- - - -

Eliot doesn't think it's fair for two such sexy things to exist in such close proximity, but the universe doesn't listen to his rules, and that's probably a good thing. Instead, the universe provides him on occasion with these glorious, glorious sights, like today's fine example: Nate Ford, holding out a steaming hot mug of coffee with his name on it.

(Literally. All Eliot's things have his name scrawled on in permanent marker. In his house, the moment you brought something in, his mum would label it. He took Nate home for one day in the holidays - his house is near the airport and Nate flew back to Boston for Christmas - and his mum labelled half of Nate's belongings in the first ten minutes, and in a flurry of Sharpie related misdemeanours she ended up labelling Nate, too. The word embarrassment really doesn't cover it,  _and_  it took Nate three days to scrub his name from his neck.)

Eliot takes the mug and shoves as much of his head into it as he can, inhaling the sweet smell in the hope it will clear his brain. When he eventually raises his head he sees a full complement at the table of his housemates—Sophie, Parker, Hardison and Nate—and they're all smiling these wide, wide smiles.

"On a scale of one to mortified," Eliot says, "what did I  _do_  last night?"

"Show him," Nate says, nodding his head at something blue on the table which Eliot recognises a moment too late for his sanity as Hardison's second laptop. (He has four. Eliot still has the small scar from when he touched Hardison's Sunday-best one.) A familiar red and white logo catches Eliot's attention and he groans.

"Guys," Parker asks, "what do you think the chances are that Eliot's crotch will explode when he watches this?"

"I hate you all and you haven't even hit play yet," he tells them, sinking onto the nearest stool. Parker slides him a bowl of fake Rice Krispies. He grabs for a handful of them, mortified, and chews them as the video buffers. They taste stale. Of course, Parker will have taken them from his room. He ought to be mad, but so far, none of them have been quite as mad at her as they should since she managed to steal them free cable from their stuck-up next-door neighbours.

Then the video plays. It's definitely Hardison's smart phone as the culprit this time. Eliot's hanging onto Hardison as he bursts into their shared living room, and he's- is he  _singing_  something? He, oh god, he appears to be singing "Magic spunk, magic spunk" to the tune of Abba's "Knowing me, knowing you" and that's bad enough, until he breaks off that tune and bellows "Moreau's magical spunk" to "Food, Glorious Food", except instead of repeating the words he's making up new lyrics, and apparently drunk!Eliot thinks Moreau's cock must taste like Saveloy.

The video crawls to an abrupt end with Eliot swinging for the phone. "You knocked the battery out," Hardison says. "I got you upstairs, and you went through the wrong door and passed out in Nate's bed." Hardison was smirking which probably meant, oh god, Eliot must have said something about his vague, slight obsession with Nate's rear end, oh god, oh god, oh god.

"I'm so sorry," Eliot mumbles, shaking his head and staring at the blank screen, and at the number of hits below the video. 120 hits. He really, really hopes most of those are Hardison, but he doubts it. If it gets around the department, then- "Hardison! I've never even  _spoken_  to Moreau."

"Well that's gonna be awkward," Hardison says.

"Dammit, Hardison!" Eliot squints. "Are you still signed into YouTube?" He lunges for the laptop, but his housemates are way too prepared. Sophie grabs for the machine and Parker pulls out the power lead, and the two of them run cackling for the stairs as Hardison blocks the way.

"You'll never get us in time," Parker howls. Eliot thinks about going after them, because he could kick down whichever door they hide behind, but he also knows Alec Hardison now—he'll have made copies.

"I will never drink again," Eliot vows into his hands as he sinks back down onto his stool. Nate pats his back, his hand warm and heavy.

"Relax. Damien Moreau's a tool. I doubt he even knows how to even open a computer, let alone figure out how to find a random clip on YouTube," Nate says. " _Ditto_  with the rest of the student population. You'll be  _fine_."

\- - -

The Saveloy sausage curled up on his favourite lecture seat come 9 o' clock in the Macaroni (okay, so it's Marconi, but Eliot was maybe a little hung over on their first lecture there, and thought it said Macaroni, and said it out loud, and then had to spend the next hour  _insisting_  it was deliberate and seriously, Macaroni sounds better) Lecture Hall says quite clearly Nathan Ford is wrong.

Eliot stabs it with his pen and holds it out at Nate accusingly. "Seriously?  _Seriously_?"

Nate holds out his hands before picking up Eliot's rucksack and pulling out his notebook and pen. Nate's stationery is already out on the thin table, lined up against the edge, but Eliot's too riled up to mock Nate for his OCD, and besides, there is always the 0.01% chance that Nate will one day accidentally ingest an hallucinogenic mushroom one day and realise he wants Eliot, and sex is more likely in that scenario if it isn't overshadowed by endless memories of Eliot relentlessly mocking him.

" _Seriously,_ " Eliot says again, wiggling the Clingfilm-wrapped sausage. He pauses, and sniffs at it contemplatively.

"There isn't a chance on Earth I am letting you eat that," Nate tells him.

"You are not a real student." Eliot pushes the Saveloy from the end of his pen and leaves it curled up on the corner like dog poop. "It is  _food_. We are  _poor_. No student can afford to  _waste_  food, especially food which is not Asda's 9p Spaghetti Hoops. Ergo, we're eating the damned sausage."

"I  _bet_  you are," Mark Vector says, pushing past Eliot up the steps to the back row of the lecture hall. Eliot flickers a two finger gesture at Vector. He turns back in time to see Nate throw the Saveloy into the bin, which is a good thirty metres away. Eliot stares at the bin, and then back at Nate.

"Why are you not on the Basketball team?"

Nate sighs. "Some of us have paid the extortionate fees to come here and study, you know."

"Fiction," Eliot says. "Fiction and  _lies._  And you know what they say about liars?"

"That they'll go to hell and burn forever in torment?"

" _Besides_  that." Eliot waves his hand dismissively. "They say  _show me a liar and I will show you a thief_."

"So I'm a  _thief_  now?" Nate just sounds amused, which is a good sign. Eliot's too hung over for his internal brakes to even let him stop now.

"Yes," Eliot says, nodding as solemnly as his hangover will allow. "You'll be Parker's apprentice. You'll have to go to TA."

"The  _Territorial Army_?"

"Fuck, no. I was one of their junior officers and there was this padre with a creepy grin, he looked like Clark Kent's dad from  _Smallville,"_ (another opus it was mandatory for all the Media First Year's to be addicted to) "and kept singing hymns as if they were country songs, and you do not  _fuck_  with country when I'm around."

"So what does TA stand for?"

"Thieves Anonymous."

"Ahhh."

"Ahhh indeed." Eliot yanks his bag from Nate and drops it to the ground, deliberately skewing his notebook to one side just to mess with Nate's OCD tendencies. He's always  _careful_ to disarray his own stuff, because those pages are full of some seriously epic doodles, from the time he drew their lecturer as a crazed Indiana Jones wannabe who hunted down things from the past and dissolved them in goo, to the time Nate and he illustrated the entirety of [ _The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WgT9gy4zQA) over what should have been his notes for his essay on Tabula Rasa. Eliot regrets  _nothing_. "You'll have to drink bad coffee, and stand up and say-"

"Hi, I'm Nathan Ford, and I am a thief."

"See, you're doing it already." Eliot beams.

"You're still not eating the sausage," Nate says.

" _Na-a-ate_."

"Making my name into three syllables is not aiding your cause."

"Names with three syllables in are  _cool_."

"I'll tell Hardison you said that."

"I  _concede the point immediately_." Eliot shudders, and sniffs at the memory of the sausage. "I still don't see why I can't cook it for tea tonight. I'm an  _awesome_  chef."

"I'll concede that point too, if we're disregarding the marmite pie."

"We are  _definitely_  disregarding the marmite pie. We are  _forever_  disregarding marmite pie."

"You said it yourself why we can't eat it," Nate says.

"Of course I did. The marmite pie tasted like  _shit_."

"I meant the sausage."

"...I did?" Eliot thinks about it, and comes up blank. Then again, he did say an awful lot last night to Hardison that he doesn't quite remember, although something is coming back about Nate's arse, and he  _really hopes his brain is making that up_.

"You definitely said it," Nate says slowly, as if Eliot's being stupid, and Eliot can't exactly protest—he does have previous. "It is food. We are poor. Students can't afford to waste food."

"This is  _exactly my point_."

"Wait for it." Nate narrows his eyes. "Only a student could have perpetrated this prank."

"I'm... with you so far."

"It is food," Nate repeats. "We are  _poor_. Students can't afford to waste food. A student placed it on your table?"

Eliot thinks it over. It still sounds like Nate is proving his point, except for the part where a student would  _never_  waste a real sausage on something as mindless as a prank, and- "Oh. Okay. I bow to your mastermind-like knowledge."

Nate smiles smugly.

"-and when you've finished yammering to your girlfriend, Mr. Spencer, I can start my lecture," Mr. Dubenich says loudly from his lectern in front.

It takes Nate turning a hilarious shade of purple and sliding down his seat for Eliot to realise Dubenich means  _Nate_  is his girlfriend and that's way too awesome a concept for Eliot to properly comprehend. Aside from the idea of Nate with a vagina which is just... creepy. Nate with breasts he could totally be into. Even gay guys like breasts, after all. Breast fondlage is the secret hobby of  _ages_. Okay, so that's Eliot personal POV and he doesn't know otherwise. He's always been too secretly scared of being shunned by other gay guys if he voices the theory, and if gay guys shun him he can't then go and date them and do that cocksucking thing he's so fond of if last night's song was any clue.

"Sorry, I had a sausage problem," Eliot says to his lecturer, ignoring the titters from the probable prank perpetrators. Dubenich stares, and shakes himself.

"Okay, children," Dubenich says, "let's try and learn something, shall we? Seeing as that's what you're all paying extortionate amounts for—to  _learn things_."

"Fiction. Fiction and  _lies_ ," Eliot whispers gleefully to Nate, who just digs him in the side with his elbow, and Eliot loses a good 35% of the lecture thinking about how nice it was to have Nate touching him just that  _little_  bit. When he regains concentration, Dubenich is talking about planes of existence, and so Eliot uses 40% of the lecture trying not to think about how stupid it was to go giddy and girly over Nate  _elbowing him_ , and the remaining 25% to draw the Alsatian he mentally is.

Okay, 20%. He loses the last 5% in a mindless haze when Nate leans over and scrawls a pink cowboy hat on the Alsatian's head.

\- - - -

"Do you have any-"

"-photocopy credits left?" Nate squints at Eliot as they wait for the others to leave the hall. "Let me guess, you want to photocopy my lecture notes after the seminar finishes. You're assuming I'll lend you my notes."

"Because you always do."

"Maybe this time I won't." Nate looks at him sideways.

Eliot goes for the tried and tested method—a pout. "But if I don't have the notes I'll fail. And then you'll have no one interesting to sit next to. You'll have to transfer to the Scriptwriting course and sit next to Sophie and Parker, and you know what the Scriptwriters are like."

Nate shudders.

"Or you could go into Media Production and sit next to Hardison," Eliot says, as meanly as he can.

"Fine, fine, fine, I've got the picture. My card's got 20 copies left on it. But that'll be 40p."

Eliot pouts, but digs in his jean pockets for the coins, swapping them for the flimsy copy card. "I can't believe you're charging me, man."

"They cost £2.00 each. I am not made of money."

"No, you're made of fleshy man flesh, but charging me proves you're heartless and should be dead inside," Eliot informs him. "You're basically just... a pre-dead zombie. The walking living."

"How does that even work?"

"It's more... civilised. Instead of the crazed zombie drive for brain, you send out for it. Like takeout brain. Room service brain. Restaurant brain. Or like... a surgeon in a hospital."

"Somebody fetch me a brain."

" _Exactly_."

Nate shakes his head and looks to the ceiling, except he's smiling, and Eliot really loves- oops, likes the way Nate smiles, and  _shit_  he's never thinking the lo-  _like_  word again. A crush on Nathan Ford is monumentally stupid, but survivable. Being in  _lo-_ uh-  _like_  with Nathan Ford would be suicidal to say the least. "You'd die in the zombie apocalypse though too," Nate says. "Early on in the outbreak."

"I would  _not_." Eliot hefts his bag onto his shoulder, mentally swearing the thing got heavier per lecture, and wondering if that meant that was where all his knowledge was going - into his ripped black messenger bag with pencil graffiti of Mr. Rogers duking it out with Chuck Norris. ( _The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny_ is too epic to be contained purely within the flimsy white pages of Eliot's lecture notebook. Some of it spills out onto his bag, some onto the desk they were sat on at the time—thank goodness erasers worked on the lecture tables—and some onto one of Eliot's trainers. It is totally justified. His messenger bag is generic and looked too identical to all the ridiculously identical briefcase bag things all the lecturers carry around.)

"You totally would." Nate picks up his own bag much more carefully and they start to sidle out from behind the narrow tables. There's no graceful way to manage it, but when he's around Nate, Eliot feels even clumsier. He smacks his elbow against the table several times, and Mr. Dubenich eyeballs them both, as if Eliot's clumsiness is giving him a headache or something. "You'd grab Rice Krispies and a Kitchen Devil knife and half a litre of flat Dr. Pepper and think you were prepared."

"And Poptarts. Don't forget the Poptarts."

" _What_  Poptarts? Twice now, you've bought four boxes at the beginning of term and they're gone in what, five minutes? I think when I  _met_  you, you were sat in the debris of the boxes, crumbs on your chin, silver packets all over the place and one of the blue cardboard box flaps in your hair."

Eliot ought to be mortified, but all he can think and say is, "Good times."

"You'd have no Poptarts left to even grab."

"I see where you're going with this. In a zombie apocalypse world, there would never be anyone left alive who could make Poptarts, and in my severe depression at this sad future world I would throw myself on the ravenous hordes of the undead, crying about the death of Strawberry Pop Tarts as they gnawed on my skin."

"Uh, I was aiming for you'd do something stupid like be bitten while trying to save the rest of us," Nate says, "but that version sounds accurate enough."

 _I'd be bitten while trying to save you_ , Eliot thinks, and flushes a little, and Nate unfortunately  _notices_  the blush, and Nate opens his mouth to say something-

-but of course someone has to interrupt. Eliot wishes for the thousandth time he knew voodoo or martial arts or _something_  which could hurt the interrupter.

"Mr. Spencer." Eliot turns to see Mr. Dubenich still stood at his lectern, looking decidedly unimpressed beneath his decidedly bushy eyebrows. Eliot feels a bit better—he knows exactly how to hurt  _this_  interrupter. By being himself and not appearing to give a fuck about any of Dubenich's classes. Ha. "If you and your boyfriend could stop flirting long enough to vacate the hall, I have another class trying to get in."

Dubenich, unfortunately, is right. Nate and Eliot like to wait til the hall is empty to leave so they're not crushed, but Eliot doesn't want to think how long the hall  _has_  been empty. Probably at least a minute, which in university time is a _millennium_ , or a millisecond, depending on the ETA of the nearest exam or essay deadline.

Their next educational thing is a seminar in Weymouth House. Nate's quiet as they rush out of the lecture hall. Eliot matches pace alongside him. Nate doesn't speak until they're just entering the building. "That's the third time  _today_ someone has insinuated we're gay," Nate says, prodding Eliot in the shoulder.

"Dubenich doesn't count," is Eliot's automatic reaction. "He's permanently got his knickers in a twist. Nothing he says can be trusted. What the fuck is an existential plane anyway?"

Nate shoots him a low and dirty look. "Everyone knows Dubenich is sulking because of the insinuations he stole Ms. McRory's paper for his latest book. It doesn't discount  _everything_  he says."

"Call her Cora like she insists we should, freak."

Nate rolls his eyes. "Still, I'll amend it—it's been  _two_ times people have insinuated we're gay for each other just in the last hour. It's a good thing my dad isn't around. He'd beat you up for sullying my honour."

"He'd  _try_ ," Eliot says automatically.

"You'd lose," Nate sing-songs. "You're so weak a box of Nesquik defeated you last term."

"One, and it was  _banana_ ," Eliot mutters. "Everyone knows the banana Nesquik tubs are solid. But you'll regret saying that. In ten years I'm going to be like Steven Seagal. I'll be able to take out a boatload of crooks with both hands tied behind my back."

"Seagal would be able to break whatever was tying his hands," Nate says. "I'll take it back in ten years though if it turns out you can. A  _whole_  boatload, mind. I'm holding you to that."

Eliot tries his best not to squee at Nate saying he'll take it back in ten years, (that and the fact that Nate is holding him to something, because that's one of Eliot's favourite fantasies—Nate holding him against a bed, against the wall, against a door...) because that's him saying he'll still be in Eliot's life in ten years time and that is so beyond awesome—but his masculinity has taken several dire hits over the last 24 hours and a squee would be one hit too many. He would have to, like, go chop down some trees and chug some lager and burp on some hot women, and he doesn't have the energy. He wants to sleep  _forever_. He could manage a half-hearted ball scratch, he's pretty sure, but he's also sure Nate wouldn't appreciate it. Alas.

"Well," Eliot says, and because it hasn't been said formally, and it really  _should_  be said formally, and if Nate is going to run a thousand blocks now it's probably best that Eliot get his heart broken as a First Year when the grades only account for 10% of the final degree, "your dad might not approve of me as a friend then because... well. They might have been jokes, but it's true, I-"  _It's just words,_  Eliot thinks fiercely.  _Just three words._ Although if they were  _easy_  words, maybe Eliot might have spoken them out loud before now, but he hasn't. Because they're difficult, and have an impact every time he says it, but Nate's his best friend, and he has a right to know, and okay, Eliot's going to say it before he loses his nerve. "I am gay."

"I sort of got that," Nate says, looking straight ahead as they walk, "from your delightful song about wanting to suck Moreau's tasty cock."

"A bit of a clue," Eliot says, wincing. "Are you- I mean." He stops, and Nate stops at the same time, turning to look at him with a quirked eyebrow. "Are you okay? Because you can stop sitting next to me or talking to me if it's going to be an issue."  _Break my heart fast,_  his thoughts plead, the object of his thoughts beating racetrack fast.

"My dad's the homophobe," Nate says, patting Eliot on the shoulder. "I'm pretty sure it's not genetic."

"But you're all religious and shit," Eliot says. "The bible-"

Nate shakes his head like Eliot's being a complete doofus. "That's my cross to bear," he says, in an unidentifiable tone, and Eliot opens his mouth to say something, because the moment feels odd, wrong somehow,  _heavy_. Like Nate's admitted something bigger than Eliot finally saying he's gay out loud. But Eliot can't figure it out, and he's pretty sure his brain is going to devote itself to worrying about the fallout, because sure Nate's being cool about it now, but maybe their friendship will change, and Eliot really, really hopes he hasn't screwed anything up. "Dude, I can  _hear_  you thinking. And you know what that means?"

"The education is finally kicking in?" Eliot tries hopefully.

Nate shakes his head. "The alcohol's finally worn off."

"Oh, god." Eliot holds his hands over the place where he thinks his liver is. " _Good_  liver. You're  _doing such hard work_."

"Come on, we've got the seminar in less than a minute. I'm pretty sure Cora will let you compliment your internal organs during the session if you can link it to Simulation and Simulacra."

"I can link  _anything_  to Simulation and Simulacra. That's the joy of Media Theory. You're  _never wrong_."

"Makes a difference from 99% of the rest of your life when you're eternally wrong," Nate jokes as they reach the door. Eliot watches as Nate goes in ahead of him, wishing like mad that Nate's joke hasn't so far proven to be quite so true.

He just about manages to convince himself that Nate  _is_  a liar when he follows Nate through the door and remembers why it's a thousand, million per cent true. His life is the wrongest life of all time.

Eliot mentally curses his brain, which must have chosen to sacrifice itself to save his liver. He definitely regrets drinking so much if that's the case, because if his brain was working...

...maybe he would have remembered Damien Moreau is in their seminar group.

\- - - -

So, this is awkward. It might have been  _less_  awkward if Eliot had done for the reading for the seminar, some essay on point of view and how women know they're being looked at or something like that, but he doesn't even have any respite on that front.

  
Thankfully Nate is the bestest best friend  _ever_ , because he takes the seat in between Moreau and the only other free seat in the room. Eliot sinks into it and ignores the smirking from the idiots on the other side of the table. Larry Duberman actually points at Moreau and then at Eliot before smirking at him. Eliot wishes he had some media theory which could support him punching the crap out of Duberman; at least Cora might not report him if he has an appropriate quote properly Harvard referenced to explain why fusing Duberman's skull into the carpet is totally necessary.

The seminar is mandatory, not requiring an actual exam or essay to acquire a pass mark, merely 80% attendance, and Eliot's been planning to use that leeway to go to Alton Towers in the summer term. He wishes miserably he had thought of going in the summer holidays instead, except then there would be kids  _everywhere_ , and Eliot's tummy goes a bit jumbly at the thought. He's felt guilty about kids ever since an Event That Cannot Be Named when he might have been babysitting for his neighbours and he Might Have Accidentally Left One of the Toddlers In A Freezer For Twenty Minutes; the upshot of it is that Eliot knows childminding is not a great career path, the downshot is he's spent forever feeling ridiculously guilty afterwards, even though the parents never found out, and that guilt manifests in him randomly looking after lost kids in parks and hospitals and whatever.

Bournemouth University is also apparently located in a time sinkhole, so the hour that the seminar is supposed to be crawls on for fifteen days. At least, that's Eliot's theory. He gets a bit cross-eyed as Cora goes off on one of her famous rants about Mikhail Bakhtin, and it's probably sometime during this that the piece of paper ends up on his notes.

When Eliot refocuses his gaze (Cora's now talking about Batman, which is more Eliot's speed) he sees it. He knows instantly it's not his notes because there's legible writing on it. He picks it up and looks at it, casually unfolding it. Nate leans in before Eliot can push him away.

" _Loved the song,_ " the note reads. " _Let's try a less Hollywood version, eh? The Warehouse, 8pm.—DM."_

Eliot swallows, feeling a rise of heat curl up his body from his toes, flaring into his cheeks. Is the note a joke? Or is it actually a serious note from Moreau? He's pretty sure Moreau's gay, if Fresher's Week was any indication (Eliot ran into him,  _literally_ , in the Old Firehouse toilets snogging the face off Jim Sterling; Eliot was so appalled he couldn't even stutter an apology, hence his lack of previous speakage with Moreau—because who the  _hell_  would find Jim Sterling attractive? The bloke's a snot weasel. Except cocktails were two for one that night, and Eliot knows personally that beer goggles have taken down many a fine gentleman. It happened to Eliot once, with this guy who insisted Eliot call him Kiev, when everyone in Leeds  _knew_  his name was Kevin Butcher. It took Eliot a few weeks to shake the Pavlovian response to want chicken the instant he wanted sex after that interlude. Sometimes he  _still_ wants KFC after he gets laid.)

He risks a peek. Moreau's staring directly at him, a curl to his mouth that should come across as supercilious but is actually pretty hot. It's not as hot as Nate's mastermind grin when he's figured out something that's super tricky, but it's the grin of a guy who Eliot actually stands a chance with.

Possibly. Maybe. If this isn't a joke. Fuck, getting laid shouldn't be as complicated as all this, Eliot's pretty sure.

Moreau points subtly at the note, taps his watch, and holds out eight fingers.  _8 o' clock._  Eliot's mouth is a little dry at the prospect of this actually being genuine, because if he does have a chance to fuck Nathan Ford out of his brain he wants it. Also, sex is always awesome. Except when it sucks. And even then, Eliot's still a big fan.

It's worth the risk. Eliot nods. Moreau's smirk widens and he turns back to Cora, as if he's been paying perfect attention. Of  _course_  Cora doesn't pick on  _him_.

She picks on Eliot. "Eliot, what do you think?"

Eliot peers around the room, trying not to let his mouth hang open and stay there. Everyone's looking at him as if they're genuinely interested in his answer, and Eliot curses his brain, because it  _would_  be the first actually interesting discussion that he's zoned out on, wouldn't it? To be fair, it is because he was thinking about sex, which really should trump learning every time. He wonders if the Examination Board would see it his way.

Nate's the only one who's not looking interested, probably because Batman is totally not his thing. Nate doesn't really  _do_  fiction, so why he's on a 30% creative course is completely beyond Eliot. Except for Bournemouth doesn't do Religious Studies, and maybe Nate wants a career on  _Songs of Praise_  or one of the many Evangelical channels creeping in on the weird numbered Freeview channels or something. Nate's not even looking  _vaguely_  interested; he just looks sort of  _strained_. Probably because Eliot's not taking the studying seriously. He really,  _really_  should take a look at doing that some time soon.

"I... think it's an interesting perspective," Eliot says, slowly. "But with too much emphasis on postmodernism?"

"Excellent point!" Cora says. "Does anyone have a quote highlighted in the reading that might back up Mr. Spencer's ideology?"

Eliot lets out the tense breath he drew in after trying what is turning out to be his stock answer to everything (seriously, postmodernism is the most awesome companion of a procrastinating student in the world. Eliot wants to hand its creator a drink, except he's vaguely sure its creator is humanity in  _general,_ or maybe it was the Pop Art artists, so he doesn't know whether to buy himself a drink in lieu of being able to buy humanity a round, or to, like, buy a can of Campbell's Soup in Andy Warhol's honour. Maybe he can do  _both_.)

Normally in this situation, when Eliot's ability to bullshit magically saves his arse, Nate's ready with a positive whisper, like "nice save" or "I can't  _believe_  she bought that" or, Eliot's favourite, "One day you're going to bat your eyes at someone and they're  _not_  going to fall at your feet, and you're going to be so shocked your face will stick." It's only his favourite because Cora heard Nate the time he used it, and made Nate lead the next reading even though it was Eliot's turn.

Of course, Cora also knows quite plainly that Eliot  _never_  does the reading, whereas Nate always  _does,_ so perhaps she orchestrated it so that her seminar wouldn't have to suffer Eliot stuttering through the essay cold.

This time Nate looks  _pissed_. Eliot feels resentful. It's not  _his_  fault he gets away with everything. Sure, he's been perfecting the power of his baby blue eyes since the dawn of time, and he knows his country charm is endearing (in the deficit of an Irish accent in the vicinity, Eliot's Yorkshire accent is usually the nicest in the room) but it's not his fault he's made weaselling out of things into an art form. Nate's skill is academia and thinking and being generally the biggest brain in the world; Eliot's skill set is slightly different. Eliot's not a natural studier, and Nate shouldn't be pissed off at that.

Except apparently he is.

Nate stays pissed off, right through the rest of the seminar, right through when Moreau brushes past Eliot on the way to the door and whispers, "See you tonight, Spencer," right through the library when Eliot photocopies all of Nate's notes, and then right through half of lunch, even though it's Chinese day on the multicultural food section and both Nate and Eliot can eat enough Spring Rolls in Sweet and Sour Sauce for it to qualify as an Olympic Sport. Nate's version of pissed off is a dark expression and silence. Eliot fills up the space with prattle, something else Eliot could qualify in at an Olympic level.

"Seriously," Eliot says, polishing off his third plate of Spring Rolls and eyeing up the queue to see if there's enough left to bother queuing a fourth time. "You're going to come with me tonight, right? I mean, just in case Moreau's got a camera crew or something waiting for me to humiliate me."

Nate lifts his head from his mere second plate of Spring Rolls (a  _definite_ sign there is Something Up with him) and squints at Eliot. "Why are you going if you're not even sure it's a genuine date?"

Eliot looks at him flatly. "Uh, because if it's genuine there's a chance of sex? And I quite like sex. It's definitely in the top five list of my favourite things to do. Maybe even my top four."

"Which would make it your fourth favourite thing," Nate says, spearing his last Spring Roll idly. "What are your top three?"

"Sleeping," Eliot says. "Always the top contender."

"Top choice approved."

"Next: eating."

"Of  _course_."

"Third-" Eliot pauses, pretending it's for dramatic effect, but in reality it's to give him time to come up with an alternative to  _Spending time with you, Nate, and imagining all the different ways you would kiss me_ , because that's totally and unutterably sad. "Watching cartoons or motorbiking. I can't quite choose."

"Watching cartoons _while_  motorbiking," Nate says.

"Exactly. But apart from those three slash four things... Sex, definitely," Eliot says. "And it's not like I have a million guys lining up for the task."

Even though Nate's blatantly uncomfortable with Eliot saying sex a lot (the flinching is a definite clue) he's still an awesome friend, and as such, not only is he putting up with it, but he also puts down his fork and leans across, patting the back of Eliot's hand comfortingly. He catches Eliot's gaze and smiles softly, not sarcastically at all. "Dude, there's plenty of guys out there that  _must_  want you. I mean, who wouldn't? You're hot. You have hair which doesn't curl up into a bed nest in the morning. You're  _interesting._ You don't have to settle at all, let alone for the first guy who offers."

Eliot's brain is understandably wrapped up in the concept of Nate's hand on his, and Nate calling him hot. He tries his best for coherency, and resigns himself to the fact that Nate will attribute his inability to speak like a normal person to  _feelings_ , or something like that. "Uh- I- I'm not settling. I'm pretty sure I meant to try and ask Moreau out. Only I think my intentions were to quietly pull him to one side and ask for a lunch date, not to sing about my appreciation for some of his more questionable bodily emissions across YouTube. You  _cannot_  let me drink tonight, I  _swear_."

"Alcohol is evil. I'm pretty sure I'd be an addict if I started drinking," Nate adds, his words a little fast as he pulls his hand away from Eliot's, like it's not the first time he's thought about it. Eliot quirks an eyebrow at him instead of voicing the obvious question. "I have an addictive personality."

"Which would explain why you mainlined all of  _Roswell_  in five days," Eliot says in realisation, trying not to feel bummed that he's missed this about Nate, another of the things they have in common. "I would have seriously pulled my hair out if I'd had to listen to another minute of Liz whining about how Max was soooo perfect, and evil Tess was sooooooo evil, and I can't stand to lose my hair. You said it yourself, my hair is  _awesome_."

"I never used the word awesome," Nate says. "I want that to be made clear now in case you try and insinuate such a thing later."

"That sounds too close to legalese for my brain. Let's go buy more Sweet and Sour Spring Rolls."

"Aren't you worried that this is an addiction too?"

"If it is," Eliot says grimly, "we're both hooked. And if it cost more than £1.50 a portion I would wean myself off it. But as it's food which is ridiculously cheap for our budget, I think we should suffer this addiction in a manly and stoic fashion, and eat until we are too full to move."

"I bow to your crazier judgement," Nate says, "especially as it's justifying the best meal in  _existence_."

"Amen," Eliot says. "That was a prayer, right?"

"Yes," Nate says, thumping his shoulder in pity. "Yes, it was."

There's a quiet pause as they stand at the end of the queue. Eliot frowns. "Are you mollifying me again?"

Nate looks at Eliot as if he's a question in an essay he's puzzling over, and it's an odd moment, another in the assortment of odd moments that have populated the day so far and it's still only 1pm. Then Nate shakes himself and he grins. "Of course."

"I should stab you with my fork but I have a worthier purpose for it in mind," Eliot tells him.

\-----

During the first weekend of moving in to their houseshare, before classes had even formally begun, the five of them nicknamed their house  _The Tower of Babble_.

It's not a real tower, something Eliot's bemoaned more than once. Living in an actual tower would be fucking  _awesome_.

Eliot can't quite remember who came up with it. He thinks it was partly due to Sophie's really bad (her mini-performances she  _insisted_ on throwing in their shared sitting room had two settings— _really_ bad and  _oh my god I'm going to gouge my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon_ bad) rendition of what she called "The Old Testament in 5 minutes." Eliot, Parker and Hardison spent the next hour afterwards sobbing into an ice-cream about the 5 minutes of their life they would never, ever get back; Nate actually enjoyed it, although he spent the next half an hour correcting Sophie's pronunciation so much she joined them at the ice-cream tubs to make him  _shut up_.

Sophie must have mispronounced Babel as Babble, and as all five of them seemed to share the propensity for mindless babbling at some point or the other, depending on the situation, Eliot guesses the name must have struck a chord with all of them. It's only a  _chord_  of recognition because Eliot vaguely recalls them chasing down the ice-cream with Jaegerbombs, and he really wishes he'd listened to his subsequent  _No Drinking Ever Again_  rule he must have come out with the next morning.

The following day a glittery sign of "THIS IS THE TOWER OF BABBLE. BE SILENT AND BE CAST OUT" appeared on the door, followed by a pencil sketch of the Silence from  _Doctor Who,_ followed by a Weeping Angel standing on the Silence's head with a speech bubble casting the Silence out of the house, followed by someone arguing in capitals that the Weeping Angels just don't speak they only fling people out in time, then someone had added some Daleks, and someone else added the caption "WHAT IS THIS, I DON'T EVEN", and then Nate stuck a church advert at the bottom, and the whole wretched mess had been used in a game of Keepaway and then stuck back on the wall complete with the addition of an empty condom wrapper and dubious brown stains, and it was  _still_ in better state than the house contract they made on the first night which is stuck below it.

The first few things are easy to read, like  _Clean up after yourself_  and  _Follow the bin rota! NOW!_  and  _If you can USE the microwave you can JOLLY WELL WASH IT OUT AFTERWARDS,_ except the rules degenerate into  _Do NOT use megaupload to get your illegal TV, I will motherfucking torrent it for you, just leave the list in front of my door of what you want_  and  _Eliot Spencer is never allowed to drink again_  and  _All your cereal are belong to me, love Parker_.

The rest is indecipherable mush, apart from a few words where someone has tried to put in words their babbling 'triggers'. Like Parker only babbles if you make her watch a film on someone breaking into a museum, because she starts correcting the technique, and that is so much creepier than it should be. And Sophie babbles if someone gives her a bad review. Nate babbles if someone touched on any religious issue he found troubling or insulting or interesting. Hardison babbles about geeky stuff like computers and Star Wars and the correct type of cheese to use when cooking. And Eliot can see on the contract, above their barely legible signatures, that Eliot had been given "EVERYTHING ELSE" as his babble trigger, and it's sadly, sadly right.

Like now, and his impending maybe-possibly-could be-potential date, because what should he wear? What piece of clothing even says  _I'm not sure this is real but I'm pretending it is but not working too hard and please be real so I can get this stupid crush on Nate out of my stupid head?_ He gets so desperate he even nearly goes upstairs and calls on Sophie, but he's horny and frustrated, not suicidal. Instead he rants to himself, holding up clothes and tossing them in a heap like he's a complete  _girl_.

He  _wants_  to wear his blue trainers, because they're excellent to run away in, however they have a doodle of Batman changing into Bruce Wayne to foil Chuck Norris, and Eliot doesn't know yet if Moreau would think it was adorable or creepy; also, some of the clubs insisted on shoes. He only has one pair of shoes, so this is the easy part.

In perfect Eliot fashion, he ends up wearing the same clothes he started the day in. Except a clean version, because a) he dropped Sweet and Sour sauce on the one from the morning and b) he owns at least three of each of his outfits. While it's fun  _pretending_  to Hardison he never  _ever_  showers, Eliot's a little bit of a closet hygiene freak. He decides to keep that fact in the closet, reasoning now that the  _bigger_  closet thing is out there, not an unspoken gay elephant in the room, he's allowed to still keep things in his metaphorical closet. Like his love of being clean and not smelling like ass, for one thing. He had wanted to keep his appreciation of Nate's finer, uh, assets in there too, but from the way Hardison smirked at him when they got back to the Tower, that ship has apparently sailed.

"Moreau's seen you in that today," a voice says from behind him. Eliot turns, mid-comb yank as he's trying to get his hair in better order (apparently throwing the whole contents of your wardrobe in a whirling dervish to find the right outfit to say  _please attempt to fuck me stupid_ ,  _I'm pretty much at the highest level of dumb one can achieve, so try your best, have at it, challenge extended_  is not the best thing for keeping one's hair straight, and Eliot's a big fan of making his hair straight as it's almost the only part of him that is) to see Nate lounging against the doorframe, arms folded, a smile on his face. Eliot's brain fills in the fact that Nate might have been stood there for a while, he wouldn't have noticed, and so Nate might have seen him milling back and forth in his underwear; alas, even to Eliot's addled brain it sounds too much like wishful thinking.

"I don't  _have_  much else," Eliot says. "Plaid only comes in so many variations, you know." He turns back to his lump of clothes, half-heartedly digging through them again. "I don't know  _which_  shade of plaid really says  _I'm not as stupid as I look on YouTube_."

"No shirt can achieve that miracle," Nate says, but pushes through into Eliot's room uninvited, heading for the pile of clothes confidently. Eliot watches as Nate's blue eyes scan the pile, and then something tenses in Nate's jaw and he swoops, his hand scooping out something from the pile, a crumpled  _mess_  of something. It's dark blue, plain. Eliot vaguely recalls it as his interview shirt, back when he had the hazy idea of getting a part-time job to supplement his ridiculously meagre Student Loan. But then he found 9p Spaghetti Hoops (the holy grail of all students  _everywhere_ ) and resigned himself to the world of scraping around bargain shelves in the supermarket, and elbowing grannies at 10.58pm in Tesco for the cut-price bakery food. He vaguely recalls tossing it into the bottom of his wardrobe and forgetting it ever existed. "This one.  _Definitely_."

Eliot squints at it. "I think it says more  _sad sad student alone forever_  rather than  _fuck me now,_ " he says, and Nate's cheeks colour a little, but he doesn't say anything and then Eliot feels bad, because he forgets Nate's stilted lifestyle and how not everyone was brought up as foul-mouthed and honest as him. Not everyone had the freedom. "Sorry. I forget that I shouldn't be so-"

"Eliot," Nate says, looking at him seriously, "I like how you speak your mind. I'm going to check if Parker blew up the iron or if it's still serviceable. Come on."

Eliot frowns.

"Irons make your clothes flat," Nate says, slowly, turning to go.

Eliot's lost. "...and?"

"The iron, if it's working, will make  _this_  flat," Nate says, waving the crumpled item of clothing.

"I think I'd believe that when I see it," Eliot says, still a bit confused.

"You will see it," Nate says grimly. "You're ironing it yourself. I'm not your fucking housemaid."

"Awww, Nate," Eliot protests automatically, and then he pauses and squints at Nate. "Did you just say  _fucking_ housemaid?"

Nate's smile becomes instantly forced. He turns. Eliot can see a hint of red creeping up Nate's neck, just at the point where his mum once scrawled  _Property of Nathan Ford!_  in cheery, permanent blue Sharpie. "Um..."

"You  _did,_ " Eliot crows, following Nate out of the room, double checking in his pocket for his wallet and key and letting his door click shut. "You  _totally_ did. I'm  _absolutely_  rubbing off on you!"

"Can you please not do that in the shared areas of the house?" Parker says, passing them on the stairs, eyeballing them both oddly. "My virgin eyes will  _bleed_."

Nate ducks his head and Eliot stares at her until she skips up the stairs and turns on the landing. "She's so odd," Eliot breathes, shaking his head as they hit the ground floor and turn into their kitchen-come-dining room-come-sitting room-come-whatever other room they could think up.

"You're a  _bad_  influence," Nate mutters, eventually managing coherency. He pulls out the ironing board, detaches something from it, flinging it to the side disinterestedly, and pushes it to Eliot to sort it out. Eliot sinks the crossbar in and places the board down near the power points, leaning his hands against the kitchen counter and then crossing over to the sofas to see what Nate had detached from the ironing board. It's flimsy fabric, black and lacy.

"Holy shit, it's Sophie's bra!" Eliot picks it up and strings it out, poking the wire in the cups and grinning delightedly. "This... would make an  _awesome_  pirate flag."

"And you thought you being gay was a secret before because..." Nate draws out the last word. Eliot shoots him a look of disapproval, but they both know it's false. Nate bends down by one of the cupboards and Eliot does his very best not to leer, except the material in Nate's ever-usual grey trousers stretch  _oh_  so nicely over his arse, displaying it to absolute perfection, and god, Eliot's only human. He has eyes. And those eyes  _really_  lo-  _dammit_ ,  _like_  Nate's arse. It would be a shame to deprive them, and it's not his eyes' fault Eliot's an expert on crushing on the most unavailable people on the planet. For example, his perfectly reasonable crush on President Obama. His crush on Timothy Hutton when he was in _Ordinary People_. His crush on Sophie (oh come on, he's human,  _he has eyes_ , he may be gay but  _Sophie Devereaux,_ come _on_ , people. Everyone has a crush on Sophie, from the president of the university to Perry at their local Co-op, and Co-op Perry didn't like  _nobody._ ) All ridiculous, impossibly unrequitable crushes, and his stupid brain has added Nate on top of the pile, like he's the cherry on a cake and urgh, now Eliot really wants cake.

"Found it," Nate says, waving something blocky around. Eliot follows the movement of it, and he's still thinking about cake. " _Earth to Eliot_."

"Cake!" Eliot blurts, flushes, then says, "Oh! The iron, yes." He snatches the iron from Nate and bends down to plug it in. His cake fantasy has obviously done a number on his brain, because when he fails several time to get the prongs in the holes (it's not as  _easy as it looks,_ seriously) he catches Nate's reflection in the shiny metal surface of the iron, and it  _can't be_ , but the messed up reflection makes it look like Nate's checking out  _Eliot's_  arse, and there are so many impossible things about that thought, Eliot can't list them all. He refocuses on getting the three prongs into the hole, this time succeeding, and he flips the switch. The iron obligingly turns its red light on for him. "Awesome!" He stretches up and sets it down on the metal rest, waiting for it to heat up, and turns to Nate. "Thanks, man." Eliot holds out his hand so Nate can pass him the shirt, and Nate looks down at Eliot's hand like it's an alien  _thing_. Eliot tries his best not to be offended. "Can I have my crumpled mess of fabric, please?"

"Oh!" Nate colours a little again, and Eliot makes another mental note to find the damn thermostat wherever it is because the Tower is always  _way_  too hot. Nate throws him the shirt. "Sorry. I forgot I was holding it."

"I'm never forgetting that I'm holding  _this_ ," Eliot says, wiggling Sophie's bra at Nate. Nate's expression reminds Eliot a little of constipation; he's obviously unimpressed at Eliot's antics, which bodes well for Eliot's maybe-possible-potential-date tonight, because that's how Eliot pulls—he just goofs off until someone finds it adorable, or they kiss him just so he'll  _shut the fuck up_. Either way, it's usually a win-win method. "Fine, Mr. No-Fun-Pants," Eliot grouches. "I'll put the bra down."

"Good," Nate says, in a stiffer voice than he's been using all day. "That's appropriate behaviour."

"Appropriate what-now?" Eliot says, affecting a confused expression as he carefully places Sophie's bra in a prominent place on the nearest armchair. He really  _wanted_  to loop it around the back of the chair, fasten it so that the cups looked like creepy eyeballs, but Nate's disapproval is enough to dampen Eliot's enthusiasm. "It sounds like a made up concept to me."

" _Everything_  sounds like a made up concept to you," Nate grouches, but he also sounds a lot happier, so Eliot's totally going to keep him at that level.

"Ooh, green light." Eliot grabs for the iron and throws the shirt down, haphazardly ironing his shirt because he knows it's going to wind Nate up, and he can see Nate's fingers twitching in the corner of his vision. Nate's such a controlling bastard, Eliot's said as much to his face on many an occasion and Nate's pretty much always agreed, and he would make an  _excellent_  evil mastermind. Eliot's brain starts to happily embark on all the ways he could con Nate into agreeing to thwart the next emerging superhero with clever gadgets and witty dialogue - except Nate's so clever he'd be the one supervillain  _trashing_  the hero every time, and as he flips the shirt over to do the other side he feels suddenly quite sad. Because Nate's an honest man, and you can't con an honest man. Eliot knows this because  _Hustle_  tells him so every week. Eliot can probably never watch  _Hustle_  again after this, because Mickey says it nearly every other minute like he's a stuck cuckoo clock, blaring it over and over; it would be like pouring salt into the gaping open wound of Eliot's heart. Not that his thoughts err to the melodramatic side of things or anything.

"I think we might have a genuine article of clothing emerging," Eliot says in wonder, putting the iron to one side, kicking the switch off. "Can you pass me one of my hairties? I've got a packet in the telephone table, one in the kitchen draw and one in the freezer."

"What did your last slave die from?" Nate says, but he moves to the telephone table, rummaging in the drawer. Eliot unbuttons the shirt he's wearing so he can change and turns to Nate just as he undoes the last button. Nate's holding out a pack of hairties, and Eliot reaches for them automatically, and their fingers touch, just a little, except Nate hisses low in his throat like he's  _hurt_ , and he drops the hairties.

"Dude, are you okay?" Eliot moves in closer, and Nate steps back automatically, and then laughs, almost  _nervously_ , and Eliot says, suddenly paranoid, "Um, my gayness isn't  _contagious_."

Eliot doesn't realise he's so worried that Nate might say something to the effect of being frightened to be around Eliot again until Nate says, shakily, "Sorry, I hit my hand earlier and totally forgot about it. My bad."

"I'm sorry." Eliot's immediately contrite. "I would  _never_  have ordered you around if I knew-"

"Hey, it's my fault." Nate ducks and picks up the hairties, making an obvious show of using his other hand. "Here you go."

Eliot holds out his hand. Nate drops them into the outstretched palm, carefully making sure there's no skin contact this time. "Thanks," Eliot says, paranoia still buzzing in the base of his skull, because if Nate's ashamed of him that's, that's worse than his heart being broken, that's some of his soul too.

"I'll wait for you outside," Nate says. "I just need a bit of- Y'know. Real air. It's like a sauna in here."

Eliot nods, his mouth a little dry with disappointment, because the reality could be that Nate hates him, but Nate's trying not to, and that's worse than being outright told  _you're a fucking disgusting faggot and I hate you_ , and the few times Eliot's heard that were pretty sad occasions. "You okay otherwise?" Eliot says, pressing the matter, concerned.

Nate smiles at him, and his eyes dip for a second, and Eliot feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, because Eliot's shirt is gaping and for all the world it kind of looked like Nate was glancing at his naked torso, at the trail of hair that led down further, and Eliot can feel his heart beating against his chest he's that weirded out. Nate's eyes fix very firmly on Eliot's, and his smile is wide. "I'm fine. Just... hot."

Eliot nods. Nate reaches out and pats Eliot on the shoulder, and it's a deliberate  _we're okay_  gesture, but his hand feels heavy, and it just makes Eliot more worried. He's fucked things up by actually saying the words  _I am gay,_  out loud, and now he can't take them back, and Nate's definitely got martyr tendencies. He's probably hating Eliot right  _now_ , but making himself stay friends with him for some bizarre self-loathing reason, and Eliot's stomach is churning as he watches Nate smile at him and leave the room at super speed.

"He's not okay." Eliot turns as he's shucking off his shirt to see Sophie standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She's got the worst room, down on the ground floor, but won't swap with anyone; in one way, she's just like Nate. Unfortunately it's the way he rather likes, which accounts for  _some_  of the crush he has on her. He just wishes his crush on her was bigger and could override the one he has on Nate, because that one's fucking up all over the place.

"I totally agree," Eliot says, tugging his shirt off the rest of the way and starting to pull on the freshly-ironed one. "He's been acting odd  _all day_."

"Since this morning," Sophie says, moving into the room. She spies her bra and hilariously tries to edge across the room, unaware that Eliot's already seen (and fondled) it. "I suppose it's awkward to see your best friend declare their love for someone else, especially when-"

Eliot freezes as he's buttoning up the blue shirt. "Especially when  _what_?"

"Well," Sophie says, looking a little uncomfortable, but maybe that's because she's having to contort strangely on the spot to pick her bra up. "I guess I thought he'd always hoped you'd be singing songs about  _his_  spunk, not someone else's."

Eliot considers it as he buttons up his shirt the rest of the way. "It would have made better blackmail material," he allows. "Still, I was drunk out of my  _skull_. It could have been any name, really." Except he's been training his head for the last four months to  _not say Nate's name at all,_ especially when drunk, so he's glad it sort of paid off, even if it was in such embarrassing style.

Sophie's obviously managed to scoop her bra up because she's perched on the edge of the armchair looking more comfortable. "That's not entirely what I was getting at."

"I don't really get it," Eliot says. "But I'm glad you think he's not well too. Maybe we can tag team him to take some paracetamol. You know what he's like with medication."

"Oh my  _god_  you're an absolute  _idiot,_ " Sophie says, staring at him wide eyed. "You and him  _both_."

"You might be too if it's taken you four months to figure this essential fact out," Eliot says as reasonably as he can manage. "I've got a potential-possible-maybe date to get to, and Nate's waiting outside, so I should go."

"Oh," Sophie says, "oh, you're going on a  _date_  with him. Well, that's better news!" Eliot watches as Sophie straightens up, heading over to him with a grin, and he's so confused he thinks he might be confused  _forever_. Well. It's not like he'll really know the difference. Sophie's hands tangle in the fabric of Eliot's shirt, and she smoothes it out and straightens the collar. "Go slow with him. His dad's a homophobe so he's got some real issues about being gay."

Eliot frowns at her. "How do you know so much about Moreau?"

Sophie freezes, her hands still on his neck. "What?"

Nate peeks his head through the door, rapping on it to get their attention, and his eyes linger darkly on Sophie's hands on Eliot's neck. "Eliot, the bus-"

Eliot turns back to Sophie and pats her on the head for want of the right thing to do in this social situation. "Thanks for the pep talk," he tells her, turns on his heel and follows Nate out of the door. When he looks back to wave goodbye Sophie's shaking her head and looking more confused than Eliot feels. He shrugs. He's got enough crazy of his own to work through without worrying about hers too.

\- - - - -

The Warehouse is one of Bournemouth's newer clubs, but Hardison put it into Google Maps on Nate's phone and they find it eventually, even though it's crammed down beside a McDonald's, which Eliot cheers up about, because if Moreau no-shows him, or publicly humiliates him, then there's a great easy source of meat to console him with afterwards.

Well, a substance  _close_  to meat; a foodstuff which  _might_  have been meat in another life.

Eight is early for most of the clubs in Bournemouth, which don't really usually start to see action until 2am, and Nate's got this over-achievement strand in his DNA that leaves them in the club with an easy half hour to spare, and it turns out to be a good thing, because The Warehouse is  _heaving_  with people already. Eliot fights his way to the bar and buys lemonades while Nate masterminds a path through to the chairs, securing a table for them to wait and survey the crowd.

It's a nice club, large and a bit rough, like it's pretending to be some sort of actual rustic warehouse. There's large heavy beams spanning across the ceiling, and a VIP loft that has an actual  _hayloft_  ladder up to it behind the requisite crimson rope tie. The drinks are all served in beer tankards that Eliot thinks are made out of glass until he prods at one and finds it's just really good quality plastic; this club  _knows_  its clientele is going to be students, so it's a savvy move.

Except while the table Nate scored them is a great position for scoping out who's there, it's also highly noticeable. And Eliot's a new YouTube superstar among the local population, and has just publicly come out in the strangest way possible, and that makes him a target.

A target that gets hit on fourteen times in a row, and that's just within the first ten minutes.

By the sixth guy, Nate's sniggering into his lemonade so hard he ends up blowing bubbles in the fizzy drink. By the eleventh, Nate's not laughing any more, and Eliot's smile is frozen on his face.

"This has to be a joke," Eliot says, through his fixed grin. There's... hell, there's another one, leaning on a table nearby and giving him the big old hairy eyeball. "Seriously, Moreau's set this up to humiliate me."

Nate shakes his head. "I've been watching these guys. They're from different departments across the uni, different year groups. No way Moreau has all these on his payroll, figuratively speaking."

"So why are they all ganging up on  _me_?" Eliot hisses plaintively.

Nate gives him a pitying look, like he can't believe Eliot's that dumb. "You can't blame them," Nate says. "You can't just go from being gay in a small town where everyone knows your name and  _expects_  things from you, to being gay in a big town like Bournemouth. Even though you can be open here, it's not like being gay has a  _sign_. You're openly out, big-style, so you're a safe target."

"I'm  _turning them all down,_ " Eliot says, shaking his head. "That doesn't scream safe to me."

"You're turning them down because you have a date," Nate says. "Not turning them down because  _urgh, gay boys, they make me sick._ " Nate has a sour note in his voice, like he's quoting someone, and Eliot thinks about it.

"Yeah, okay, I see your point. Plus, my date might not even be a date, and I guess by badly hitting on me they're showing me who to approach should this not work," Eliot says. "And on a plus side to this morning, none of them are assuming  _we're_  together."

Nate smiles tightly. "Bonus," he says, almost like it's anything  _but_ , and Eliot's confused again, but at this point he's resigning himself to making "HI, MY NAME IS CONFUSED" stickers and wearing them  _everywhere forever_.

The guy who had been eyeballing Eliot sidles up, drink in his hand, smiles at Eliot, manages a pretty-suave "Hey, there" and then he flickers a glance at Nate. "Oh, shit, you're with someone. Sorry!" The guy runs off.

Eliot exhales, puts his empty glass—plastic?—on the table and folds his arms. "If I didn't have a potential-possible-maybe date," Eliot says, "I would totally be calling you a cockblocker right now."

"I aim to serve," Nate says.

Eliot rolls his eyes, and turns his head to look across at the bar, contemplating if paying £1 for a mug of flat lemonade is worth it or not. Maybe he'll switch to cola. Then he gets distracted by a guy at the bar who's stranger than the rest of the club goers. "Is that... Mr. Dubenich at the bar?" Eliot says, doing his best appalled tone just in case he's right, weaving his head to see through the crowd.

"I think it is," Nate says, his voice low and warm by Eliot's ear.

Eliot stares. "Huh." Nate's breath is warm on his skin, and Eliot shivers a little involuntarily, and turns to Nate. Nate's face is  _so close_ , and Nate's mouth opens a little, like he's trying to say something but can't find the words, and something low in Eliot's stomach flips, and-

"Hey, there."

Eliot pulls away, and he's bitterly disappointed for some reason he can't put his finger on, because it's not like Nate was going to  _kiss_  him or anything, but there was something almost  _crackling_  in this moment, and it's been ruined by... yet another guy. "Really?" Eliot says to the guy, deadpan. "Seriously?"

The guy's kind of cute, actually, and his face crimsons at Eliot's indelicate reaction. "Whatever, dude, you're not  _that_  hot," and spins on his heel, stalking away.

Nate stops laughing.

Eventually.

\- - - - 

 

By the time 8pm rolls around, Eliot's shot down thirty different guys in The Warehouse.  _Thirty_. He makes Nate swear on his  _soul_  that he'll  _never tell anyone_. Eliot's tempted to shred the pile of numbers that have also been slipped to him by the more nervous guys, but he'll save them; they should make awesome kindling for one of Parker's fires.

The total slides up to 32, and Eliot's doing that panicking thing he's so irritated about, but he can't  _help_  it. Paranoia has clammy hands and likes taking him for a whirl every now and again.

"It  _was_  a joke, I knew it," Eliot says as The Warehouse's giant clock reads 8.05. "I  _knew_  it."

"Shush now," Nate says. "He's  _here_."

"He's-" Eliot hates his friendly relationship with paranoia, he really does, because paranoia doesn't let him go, no—it dips him around 180 degrees and makes him start panicking about something else. "I should have worn plaid, I really should, I could hide against the walls of this stupid rustic farmish club and be invisible, and-"

"Eliot,  _calm down_." Nate shakes him by the shoulders, his hands a warm and familiar weight. "I'm here if you need to escape. And  _no_ , you should  _never_  wear plaid. Have you  _seen_  you in that shirt?"

"I look like an office boy," Eliot says, picking at the cuffs. Nate slaps his fingers away.

"It totally brings out your eyes," Nate says, " _and_  shows off your muscles. You're totally hot in it."

Eliot opens his mouth to respond, because hell, that statement needs some sort of response, because Nate's still really close in the dim light of the club, and his eyes are trained on Eliot's, and Eliot can see a pulse point in Nate's neck, and it's shuddering, fluttering quickly, and the air between them is sort of hot and heavy, and Eliot's mouth is dry again, and what's  _up_  with that? Eliot opens his mouth to say something to that effect, and Nate leans in a little, like he's really interested in what Eliot could say, and that much intent focussed  _purely on him_ is making him a little dizzy.

"Hi, sorry I'm so late."

Moreau's words snap them out of whatever spell they're under. Eliot jumps, nearly spills his drink, but Nate takes it from him and smiles at him waveringly with an  _atta boy_  expression. Eliot turns and grins at Moreau.

"Hi," Eliot manages, in a squeak. He stares at Moreau, completely unsure of what to say, and should he apologise, and what if this  _was_  a joke after all, and Nate's patting him on the shoulder again. He flickers a glance at Nate.

"I'll be over there if you need me," Nate says, jerking his head in the direction of the corner of the club. Eliot watches him go for a moment, but then Moreau slides into the seat next to him, and Eliot focuses his attention directly on him.

Moreau pushes something forward. It looks like some sort of cocktail. He has a similar one in his hand. "It's nice to actually get to speak to you, Spencer," Moreau says, picking up his own cocktail. Eliot picks up his own, feeling a little clumsy, like his body doesn't fully belong to him. "I've been meaning to for a while, actually."

"Me too," Eliot says. "Um. Obviously."

Moreau smiles. His teeth are white and neat, straight like a ruler. The thought hits Eliot out of nowhere that he much prefers Nate's uneven teeth, the way they make every one of Nate's smiles a little ironic, a little knowing. He shakes that away, because Nate is over in the corner probably getting hit on by a thousand girls right now, and he's on a date with Moreau, and the possibility of sex rears its nice head again into Eliot's thoughts, so he shoves Nate out of his head the best he can.

"I enjoyed your song," Moreau says.

So maybe the possibility of sex is a little further away than Eliot had hoped for. Eliot's blush  _must_  be a Guinness World Record. It has to be. "I, uh, have unfortunate musical tendencies sometimes," he says. "Once I thought it was absolutely hilarious to end songs in the middle of their choruses with the word  _lemon_.  _Lemon_ was the tell—the point at which the song had to stop. So it would be like,  _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Lemon_ , or  _Mama, just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled the lemon_ and I'd stop, and think it was  _hilarious._ " Eliot shuts up abruptly, realising he didn't take a breath throughout and, oh crap, living in the Tower has ruined him,  _ruined him_  for life, because in the Tower he's amongst other babblers, safe and sound in a nest—a family!—of other people who do the same and so cannot judge him, and here he is, on an honest-to-actual-goodness  _date_ , and he's babbling. Mindlessly. Idiotically. He's been totally  _ruined_. He's never getting laid again in his  _life_.

"It's... like a proper joke. A comedian's joke," Moreau says, nodding along with his own words like it's an essay question that he's actually growing to understand. "They end jokes where you least expect them to in order to raise a laugh. There's humour mechanics in it."

" _Humour mechanics_ ," Eliot repeats, because it's not possibly  _fair_  that Moreau's this smart and  _this_  hot and it's bad enough that  _Nate_  exists in the world; why there are  _two_  such impossible creatures in existence is beyond Eliot. The world so far has made sense to Eliot—you're either hot or you're smart. Eliot, for example, is on the attractive scale and has left his intelligence a million miles behind him in glee, because since he's pretty no one  _expects_  clever things from him.

"All right, you got me. That's not a real term. But it  _sounds_  almost like it could be," Moreau says.

"Oh, you do that too!" Eliot feels the smile he forced onto his face relax, and the relaxation pours into his shoulders; he feels  _infinitely_ more comfortable, especially as Moreau's face tilts in confusion. "I have a stock answer in my theory seminars about postmodernism. Hell if I know what I'm saying."

Moreau laughs. Eliot gauges his facial movements, and thinks it's possibly even a genuine laugh, and that's a definite chalk mark in the  _sex is definitely possible!_ column. "Your friend..." Moreau leans around Eliot, and frowns, "he looks like if he could kill me by staring he would."

Eliot glances back. Nate's gripping his glass of flat lemonade like it might possibly refill itself if he can glare at Moreau hard enough. He feels bad. He should have slipped Nate some money to keep refilling his soft drinks, especially as Nate's like his bodyguard for the night. He makes a mental note to cook him pancakes or something in the morning. "Oh, that's just Nate. He's my... wingman?" Eliot tries the word out. It doesn't feel quite right. "Trusty lieutenant?"

"I thought you  _might_  come alone." It sounds like a come on. Moreau smiles at him, slow and predatorily, and he leans in a little closer, looking deliberately at Eliot's mouth. Eliot swallows and sips at his cocktail; his dry mouth doesn't go away.

"Your note didn't say  _come alone_ ," Eliot says, "although if it did I wouldn't have come, that would be a terrifying note to receive from someone you've potentially just crazily humiliated on YouTube, it would sound like you were going to jump me or something."

"That is sort of what I've got planned," Moreau says. Eliot stares, and it hits him all at once, this juxtaposed image he has in his head. Moreau, so close to him, flirting and warm and real and  _there_ , floating the possibility of sex. Nate, somewhere far behind, an impossible goal with too much hold on Eliot's heart.

Eliot says it before he can lose his nerve. "Good."

Which is how he feels later, when Moreau tugs him into one of the toilet stalls and pushes him up against the door. Moreau's hot and in full control of his body, and he kisses like he's a shark, and his hands are like an octopus, like he's got eight hands  _everywhere_  at once, and where the crap are all the fish metaphors coming from? Moreau kisses him again, and, yes, there it is. Moreau tastes like vodka and cherryade and bourbon, which might have been the cocktail they had, but his tongue is thick and feels  _huge_  in Eliot's mouth, and he doesn't really have any  _finesse_. He just slobbers it around in Eliot's mouth like it's some... giant fishtail.

So... he just won't make out with this dude in the future. That's fine. They can just use each other for other things, like... Moreau's hand rubs over the crotch of Eliot's jeans, and then he pushes Eliot away slightly, looking a little angry. "Dude," Moreau says, "nothing? Seriously?"

Eliot doesn't quite know what Moreau means, until Moreau takes Eliot's hand and rubs it against his own crotch, and _hello_. Moreau is  _huge_. It's clear even though Moreau's still fully clothed. Eliot swallows. "I could-" Eliot says, moving his fingers a little, but Moreau doesn't look interested now. He looks  _pissed_.

"I don't do one-sided one night stands," Moreau says. "Don't worry. There's plenty of guys out there who  _want_  me to fuck them." He manhandles Eliot down onto the closed lid of the toilet, and flickers something at Eliot. Eliot catches it. It's a  _business_  card. The guy's a First Year student and has  _properly printed business cards_. Eliot thinks suddenly that Moreau's actually kind of a douche. Moreau opens the door and looks down at him, cold and disapproving, and then he smiles, almost sadly. "Call me when you've got your brain out of Ford's arse," he says, "'cause seriously you can do so much better than him."

" _What?_ " Eliot sputters, "I-" But Moreau just looks at him sadly, shakes his head and shoves the door shut behind him.

Eliot takes a few minutes to compose himself, because Moreau's actually not  _that_  much of a douchenozzle, and he was almost kind to Eliot there at the end when he could have been  _so_  much more pissed. Eliot's lucky Moreau's just a student or whatever, because he can totally picture Moreau in the future as a hot drug lord or gun smuggler, something dangerous, he has the hot European exotic thing going for him, and that  _smirk_. Little!Eliot actually perks up a little at that though and Eliot scowls down at his crotch. "So  _now_  you want to come out to play," Eliot tells it. "You are  _totally grounded_." Then he clamps his hands over his mouth because this is a  _shared toilet_. Thankfully he can't hear anyone else. He breathes a sigh of relief.

Then he realises if it's the smirk he's interested in, it's probably because Moreau's smirk reminds him of Nate's self confident smirk, and Eliot is totally screwed. And not in the good way he had been hoping for when Moreau manhandled him into the toilet stalls.

He takes a few moments to compose himself, pushing out of the cubicle and up against the sinks, staring at his own flushed reflection in the mirror. His lips are chapped a little; Moreau kissed without talent and without mercy. Eliot stares at himself. He should be furious at Nate for lying to him, because he doesn't look hot in that shirt at all, he looks like someone he's  _not_ , someone on the verge of growing up and Eliot's nowhere near ready for that.

Eliot comes out of the toilet, almost ready to  _tell_  Nate that, but he doesn't. Nate's leaning against a sofa near the toilets, looking kind of pissed off.

"Can we go?" Eliot says, awkwardly.

Nate looks at him for a long moment and shakes his head a little. "I've got to be somewhere. I'll meet you back at the Tower."

"Huh?" Eliot says, before he can stop himself, because the vodka cocktail Moreau bought him is making him a little dizzy, and apparently it  _is_  possible for Nate to look  _even more_  pissed off.

"The whole world doesn't revolve around you," Nate snaps, and then immediately looks contrite. "I'm sorry. I just- these places give me a bit of a headache."

Eliot feels ashamed almost immediately. Nate's dislike of partying has become almost an ongoing joke in the Tower—it's easier to forget that every joke has a foundation in real life for some reason. "I'm sorry. Can I walk you to the bus stop, or...?"

"Bus, yeah. Thanks." A smile crosses Nate's face like lightning, drifting away when Nate almost  _notices_  it and schools his face into something plainer. Eliot's stomach hurts a little, because maybe something happened while Eliot was failing to get laid, and he doesn't know, and maybe Nate's hurt. "Come on," Eliot says, nodding his head at the door. Nate looks at him oddly again, but nods, and they leave.

\- - - - -

Nate's bus is apparently after the one Eliot needs to take, and it's headed to the university itself. He probably has a burning need to go to the Media lab or the Open Access Centre or something; either that, or he's going to roll around on the 5th Floor of the Library, pressing his face against the books to wipe off the stench of an  _actual social life_.

Eliot drops back into the Tower at a disappointing 10pm into a rather tense atmosphere. Sophie just glares at him from the corner of the room as she delicately taps a small netbook. Hardison's playing  _Super Mario Galaxy_ and cheating outrageously (because  _seriously_ , who needs to wander around collecting lives before they go into the Bedroom levels? Eliot doesn't voice his derision at Hardison cheating, because anything is better than the suckage of last term's Portal addiction. By suckage he means his own lack of a portal gun to zap Hardison away when he's playing it.) Parker's punching the buttons of a really old Gameboy and muttering something about stealing a spade and now  _everyone in Hyrule_ is calling her a THIEF in capital letters. Eliot makes the mistake of innocently remarking that he would have thought Parker would be pleased about being recognised in-game for what she is, and Parker actually  _yells_  at him for ten minutes solid, because apparently she's the  _best thief ever_  and  _best thieves ever_  do  _NOT_  get caught.  _Especially_ by pixelated shop owners.

Eliot makes himself a cup of tea,  _actually_  cleans out the teapot and washes down the counter rather than sit down in the weird atmosphere, and he sinks down into one of their dilapidated armchairs, counting the marks in the wall where Hardison and he threw darts without a dart board.

Nate comes back a couple of hours later,  _still_  looking moody and withdrawn, and Eliot really wants to fix it but he doesn't have a fucking clue how. Sophie's ganked off about the weird conversation they had earlier, Hardison's jabbing at his laptop now and whining about download speeds, and Parker's poking miserably at a half-eaten bowl of Cocoa Pops, which is  _seriously_  out of character—but Parker kind of feeds off their moods at the best of times, so it stands to reason she'd feed off them at the worst of times too.

 _Everyone's_ in a bad mood. Eliot drums his fingers against his jeans, and sighs. Someone has to do something, and in the Tower, if someone mentions doing something, they're volunteering to take the lead. So Eliot thinks about what he could do to cheer everyone up.

He doesn't think they'll appreciate most of his thoughts, so he changes his plan. If he can cheer  _one_  of them up for sure, maybe the others will topple, like dominoes. He doesn't have a spare laptop for Hardison to putz with, or enough money to take Sophie shoe shopping, and if Eliot knew the one thing in the world that would cheer Nate up he would have done it a million times already. Parker, on the other hand, while she's a complicated life form, she has a nice list of things to cheer her up.

"Parker," he says loudly. Everyone's heads lift a little to look at him, and he looks straight at her, grinning his most maniacal grin. She looks at him curiously. "Let's go into the garden and burn some shit."

Parker's grin is slow and like the sun.

Eliot and Parker make so much noise collecting debris from the garden and from behind the small useless shed (there's no door, no floor, a broken window and a mouse inside and that's it) that they've been amassing for the last fortnight, since their  _last_  epic burning session. Parker starts stacking it up, and Eliot prods at a large branch that's been in the garden since September. Maybe if he had an  _axe..._

Except either Parker's a crazy mind reader or she's been thinking the same thing, because she reaches into her large pockets and actually  _pulls out_  a mini axe. She throws it at him. Eliot freaks out and ducks just in time for the axe to embed itself in the wavering wood of the shed.

"The hell?" Eliot splutters. "You don't  _throw_  axes at people!"

"Sorry," Parker says, and then, in a funny voice that is probably supposed to be him, mutters, " _You don't throw axes at people_." Eliot stares at her. Parker narrows her eyes at him. "Big baby." She stalks past him and pulls the axe out of the shed. "I'll cut the wood.  _You_  make yourself useful and go buy us some matches. I used the last to make marshmallows melt."

Eliot stares at her. "And you couldn't have mentioned this when I  _suggested_  we burn stuff?"

"I'm mentioning it now. What's your problem?" Parker wields the axe like a maniac and chops the large branch in half in one go.

"I could make you a list," Eliot mutters. Parker narrows her eyes again. "All right, all right, I'm  _going_."

There's still half an hour until the Co-op closes, so Eliot sets off at a quick jog, but slows down at the end of Cardigan Road because there's a woman sat on a bench crying and Eliot feels instantly awkward even though it  _can't_  be his fault. So he tries to walk by casually, and it's the familiar label of a Jack Daniels whiskey bottle that catches his attention, and it's just as he's cursing his brain for being attached to alcohol labels that he realises he knows the woman crying.

It's Cora McRory.

Eliot stands and stares because there is something about crying women that breaks male brains, and maybe it's close to the area of the brain that has the potential to consider suicide, because that broken bit of his brain makes him sit down right next to her, even though he thinks belatedly maybe she won't exactly  _want_  one of her students seeing her this way.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the ever-present packet of Kleenex. His mother loaded each pocket of each piece of clothing he owns with one, and Eliot washes his clothes even with them  _in_  it, and the Kleenex sort of survive. Eliot thinks maybe they're made of cockroaches or something, but even  _he's_  wise enough not to mention this to the sobbing lecturer.

Eliot holds out the slightly mangled packet until the worst of Cora's sobbing subsides. Her eyes wobble on seeing the tissues, and then more tears erupt when she sees who's holding them, which isn't exactly the reaction he was going for.

He waits for her to quieten a little. "I nearly killed someone with an appetiser once," Eliot says, staring ahead into the dark street, not looking at her at all. "It was terrible. I meant to throw it into the bin and I threw it into someone's face so hard it lodged in their nose. There was lemon and shrimp  _everywhere_."

Cora sniffles a little. Eliot risks a glimpse. She's clutching her half-drunk whiskey and staring into the street. There's a Co-op bag on the floor and the telltale tail of a new receipt which shows she only bought it fifteen minutes ago, so Cora's downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels in  _Eliot_  speed. Eliot's brain rampages through the horrible list of things it could be to entail  _chugging_  Jack Daniels. "I'm not sure what-" Cora says, unsteadily.

"I was working as a waiter at this really fancy hotel. The person I nearly killed was  _Delia Smith._ "

"This still doesn't make any sense, why are you telling me this?"

"I swear," Eliot says fervently, "if you tell a single soul I nearly killed the nation's favourite cook? People will  _mob_  me. I've been humiliated enough this week already-"

"Oh, the Saveloy video, that was pretty funny, actually."

Cora's already heartbroken or some shit, so Eliot swallows down the hit and takes it and decides to think about the whole faculty watching him being an arse  _later_. "Yes, well. I nearly killed  _Delia Fucking Smith_ , and I would be  _torn to pieces_ if everyone found out, so if you could very kindly keep it to yourself I would be much obliged."

He sees the moment Cora gets it—that he's revealed some awful shit so that she'll feel more comfortable talking about _her_  secret in return. It's not a surprise she took a while to realise, because people are  _always_  underestimating Eliot. Nate tells him it's his superpower, but Eliot got depressed when he said that because  _Nate's_  superpower is so much more awesome. Nate wins, like, every board game he  _ever plays_. The pieces, the random draw cards, it's like he can control them at will, even when he plays like a maniac. Eliot's considered on more than one occasion pimping Nate as a professional Monopoly player because Monopoly boards, like,  _bend themselves_  to his every manic machination. And he's thinking about Nate again. Argh.

"If it's because I'm a student that you don't want to talk to me," Eliot says, "I'll transfer from your class or something. I'm pretty sure I could get you Alec Hardison from Irina's seminar group. He actually does the readings."

Cora takes a deep, shaky, shuddery breath in and says, "That's very kind of you, Eliot, but it's not necessary; I won't be taking your seminar group anymore."

"But-" Eliot's brain whirs and he turns to face her. "But I'll do the reading! I'll make everyone do the reading. We'll be the bestest seminar group in the world, you don't have to ditch us-"

Cora laughs a little. The sound is muffled by the tears still running down her face. "Again, that's really kind of you. But pointless. The university board fired me."

"The university board  _what now?_ " Cora opens her mouth to tell him again, but Eliot holds up his hand. He got it the first time. "Sorry, I heard you, it's just fucking  _ridiculous_. Seriously?"

"Seriously," Cora repeats. "Apparently Victor Dubenich provided them with  _proof_  that I had stolen his Bakhtin paper. Somehow he'd gotten hold of all my research, I have no idea, and he presented it as his own. I got into my office, checked my safe, and it was gone. The President summoned me, and..." She shakes her head. "You know the rules about plagiarism, how hot the university is on it. I was out on my arse within five minutes. So I thought. Well. Might as well get hopelessly drunk."

"Well, believe me, it's not the answer. Unless you like being on YouTube." Eliot reaches over and pulls the bottle from her hands. She doesn't even put up a fight—she knows he's right.

"Get rid of that for me, will you?" Cora's voice is barely a whisper, and Eliot's proud of her, because she's a grown up and has learned the vital lesson he hasn't about alcohol not  _really_  being good for you. He knows if he dumps the bottle she'll be tempted, so he unscrews the lid and downs the whole half-bottle at once and pushes the empty bottle into the bin next to him. His throat burns and his stomach is already protesting, but it's totally for the greater good, so whatever.

Cora stares at him like he's grown an extra head. "I thought you'd tip it down the drain right there or something."

"Oh," Eliot says. "Um. Oops. It's okay. I've ruined my body  _totally_. It takes way more than this to get me  _drunk_."

She blinks at him, all four eyes going at once.  _Ah,_  Eliot thinks,  _shit_.

"You... do you have friends? Someone to call?" Eliot says, while his brain is still just about functioning. "Because you should. Right now. You shouldn't be alone."

Cora opens her mouth to protest, and Eliot's impatient when he's drunk, and he's feeling the burn of being drunk now. His brain feels a little like wool stuffed into a plastic bag too tight for it, and he's  _really_  not sure where that simile came from. He leans over Cora and yanks her phone out of her bag. "Hey," she protests, and Eliot bats her half-hearted attempt to get it back away.

He scrolls through the contacts. "Tell me who to call or I'm calling-" Eliot squints. "Your dad."

"He's in Ireland!" Cora squeaks.

"Well, then," Eliot says, as reasonably as he can manage. "So I guess you'd better tell me who to call or he's going to have to fly over here and that's going to cost a bunch of airmiles, right?"

"Fine. My housemate's name is Mikel Dayan."

" _Thank_  you." Eliot finds Mikel's name and hits the green button. He waits for Mikel to pick up.

"Ford is right. You're an irritating  _ass_ ," Cora grumps.

"I am," Eliot agrees, and then his brain makes him pay more attention. "Wait, Nate talks about me?"

"All the time," Cora says. "I'm his project tutor.  _Not_  your relationship counsellor, by the way."

Eliot wants to say something in return, but the line connects and a female voice with a hot accent says, "Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Eliot Spencer, I'm one of Cora's students. She's pretty drunk on a bench outside of the carpet shop at the end of Cardigan Road in Winton, can you come and fetch her please? She's pretty upset."

"I'll be down in three minutes," the voice says, and cuts the line.

Three minutes later, this  _gorgeous_  girl slips out of one of the buildings opposite, looking hugely worried, and she goes straight for Cora, helping her to her feet, putting her arms around her waist and her face  _really_  close to Cora's and  _woah,_ apparently Cora's gay too, which is something Eliot's definitely adding to his mental fapping folder for later. He wonders idly how long is polite before wanking over the idea of your heartbroken tutor with her lesbian roommate, and he's not _so_  drunk he doesn't know that's the most inappropriate question  _ever_.

"Thanks, Eliot," Mikel says, dragging Cora away.

"Bye," Eliot says to their disappearing backs. He checks his watch. The Co-op closes in five minutes. "Shit!"

He legs it around the corner. It's just Co-op Perry on duty, too, which is irritating, as Perry doesn't like selling things with five minutes until closing time, but Eliot does his scary face and Perry sells him a box of matches and a bag of marshmallows without too much hassle. Perry doesn't give him a bag, but that's normal. Eliot vows to ask Cora later, when he's reinstated her back at the university,  _how_  to extract bags from Perry, because it's an impossible task.

It's when he's walking back to the house that he realises where his thoughts went—directly to the assumption he's going to help Cora clear her name. Huh. Apparently he  _does_  have a helpful streak in him after all. But he doesn't have a clue on how to start.

He quickens his pace. He's buzzed from the whiskey and clutching marshmallows to his chest like a crazy man, but he has a mission, and he has possibly more sober and definitely cleverer people waiting at home, and maybe they'll have a clue.

Maybe  _they_  can save Cora McRory's reputation.

\- - - -

When Eliot ran back to the house, marshmallows and matchsticks in his hands, all four of his housemates were hunched over the fire. But as soon as he started blurting about Cora's dismissal, Nate stalked back inside, and Eliot doesn't blame him—he's probably off-put about the stench of whiskey on Eliot's breath, which makes him sound crazier than normal (an achievement!)

Eliot's confused by the move - what he's saying isn't crazy at all. It's not  _fair_  that Cora has been fired, Dubenich is an _arse_ , and the idea that Nate isn't taking him seriously is more than irritating, Eliot's  _angry_.

So he does an unwise thing. He is still drunk, after all.

He goes inside and barges into Nate's room without knocking.

Nate's just lying on his bed, reading a textbook, like nothing is wrong at all.

"Dude," Eliot says, "why did you walk out? I need you."

Nate's back tenses a little at the last three words. He doesn't turn around, though. "I had work to do. And what did I say about barging into my room unannounced?"

"That it's fucking manly and impulsive, and yes I'm quoting Firefly, and you can't start complaining now when you let me sleep in here naked last night," Eliot says.

"You guys know the window's open and we can hear you, right?" Sophie's voice floats in from outside. Eliot makes a strangled sound and crosses Nate's tidy room and shoves the window closed and closes the curtains for good measure. Nate sits up then, looking from him to the closed curtains nervously, although Eliot can't figure out  _why_  Nate would be nervous.

"You're the one person I thought would definitely help me," Eliot says. "I  _need your brain_."

"My brain," Nate says. "Right." His voice goes a little quieter at the end, like he's disappointed, which Eliot thinks would make no sense even to his  _sober_  brain, because it's a compliment, so why's Nate disappointed, because it's not like Nate _wants_  Eliot to need anything else of him. Eliot  _wants_  Nate's arse; that's a completely different thing.

"Cora was  _nice_ ," Eliot says, pacing so he has that to think about. If he's worrying about staying upright he can't be worrying about Nate's odd mood swings. "Cora was-  _is_  awesome. Fucking awesome. She knew I never did the reading and still didn't get me in trouble. Dude, we have to find out who did this and punch them in the  _face_. I  _know_  Dubenich is sleazy scum. He  _has_  to have framed her. There's no way that Bakhtin piece is Dubenich's, no  _way_. Cora's the  _Queen_ of Bakhtin. We-"

"Eliot," Nate says, in this desperate, quiet tone which sounds too much like a refusal, so Eliot keeps going, in the hope that maybe he can babble Nate into submission.

"-have to do this, she would do it for us, and we all have such good skills, there's got to be something we could all do together, and Parker's got some crazy thing about beating the security guards so we could do it tonight-"

"Eliot," Nate says, presumably to chide him for even  _mentioning_  doing something that might break some rules or maybe an unimportant law or two.

"-and then we'd get her back and I would really study if we had her back, I would  _totally_  do the reading and I'd take your next session  _too,_  and-"

" _Eliot_."

Eliot finally shuts up, and looks at Nate. Nate's looking  _lost_ , and that floors Eliot into silence. Nate takes a deep breath, and tenses his shoulders, like he's about to rip a plaster off or something. Eliot's about to break the silence again, ask if Nate's okay, when Nate speaks.

"If you're going to punch out anyone, you're going to have to punch out  _me_ ," Nate says.

Eliot stares. Nate's words don't make sense. He blinks, and thinks them through again, and they still don't make much sense. He searches Nate's face for clues. He thinks he's memorised Nate's face so much it might even be imprinted in relief on his inner eyelids. Nate looks pale, too pale, and his fists are clenched and hanging loose at his side, and he looks  _tired_ , like he hasn't slept for a hundred years.

He doesn't want to know what Nate means. He doesn't  _want_  to know the thing that could make Nate so unhappy. But he _has_  to know, so he can fix it. So he can get  _his_  Nate back. "What do you mean?"

Nate draws in a long, shuddering breath and tilts his head up slightly—Nate's  _I'm being brave_  gesture. "It was me," Nate says. "I'm the one who got Cora fired."

\- - - -

Nate outlines what happened as briefly as he can. Eliot perches on the edge of Nate's desk and listens; it's what friends _do_ , although Nate keeps flinching, like he's waiting for the punch.

Apparently Dubenich came to Nate in The Warehouse and asked him—with the threat of expulsion if he refused—to go to Cora's office and steal the notes. Nate's reputation as the most honest guy on campus was like having a free-for-all key card to the place. One of the secretaries even opened Cora's safe for him.

Nate's so torn about it, Eliot can't be mad at  _all_ , which is kind of frustrating and leaves him wondering what Nate  _would_ have to do to piss him off. Probably something like... betray him, and all the guys in the Tower. That would do it. Eliot can't stand seeing Nate like this, so he crosses the floor and sits down on the edge of Nate's bed so it's harder to stare at him.

Not that it really ever  _stops_  Eliot from staring at Nate.

"Why would Dubenich come to you? And what could he threaten you with?" Eliot's torn between wanting to hare off and punch Dubenich in the face several times, which would be nice and soothe the short-term itch, but it won't do Nate much good in the long term. Thankfully his other urge is easier to assuage—he leans in and tugs Nate against him. Nate fights it for a second, but then relaxes against Eliot's shoulder, pushing his nose into the fabric of Eliot's shirt.

"He... knows my past," Nate says, his voice muffled a little. "He knows who my dad is, and he tried to use it against me, and he fucking succeeded. Eliot, he used my  _family_  against me."

"Your dad..." Eliot squints. "How could who your  _dad_  is be used against you?"

Nate pulls away. His eyes look swollen red and raw, and he tilts his head defiantly, like he's on the attack, and Eliot wants to blurt out that it's okay, that he doesn't have to know, but Nate's too fast for him. "My dad's Jim Ford. Jim Ford of Boston."

" _Jim_ Ford..." Eliot's forehead crumples like tissue. The name rings a bell. "As in the  _mafia King of America?_ The dude who got jailed a few years ago for every crime under the sun apart from incest and petty theft?"

It might be the cloud drifting in front of the sun outside the window, or maybe Nate's done it to himself somehow, but suddenly Nate looks decades older, like a huge weight is pressing down on him from somewhere. "Yes," Nate says, in a small tight voice. "My dad still owns, like, every major media production company in the  _world_."

"But... that means you could work  _anywhere_ , for  _anyone_ ," Eliot stares at Nate, aware his mouth is dropping open a little, but unable to hold it back. "Your dad, evil though he might be, is the  _holy grail_ of every wannabe Media worker in the whole wide _world_."

"Yeah, well... I wanted to prove I could make it  _on my own,_ " Nate says. "I know I could walk into anywhere and demand a job and within 24 hours it would be mine. But it would be a lie. And everyone who bent over backwards to arrange it would know it was a lie, and they would know my jailed dad was behind it, and I would never know if it was my own ability doing it, my talent, or the fact my dad could have them shot within 3 hours for not using my stuff. Plus... I guess... If it ended up being Dubenich versus my word, who are they going to believe? Dubenich, a lecturer, or the son of the _mafia King of America._ "

Eliot wishes he could take that sour note out of Nate's voice.

"Mostly it was the other stuff he blustered about threatening me with," Nate says. "If he started  _saying_  it, spreading the idea of nepotism, every media company in Britain and America would have to ban me on principle to assuage their shareholders. I would never be able to work in our field.  _Ever_."

"Dubenich took advantage of you." Eliot's voice is high-pitched with outrage. "I wish I could legally punch him, because I _totally would_."

Nate manages a half-smile, and Eliot's not too unhappy it's not a  _full_  smile, because there's so much genuineness in it, through the huge vulnerability Nate's showing in every muscle in his body, that it gives Eliot reassurance his friend's going to be okay, and that's at the crux of everything for Eliot. Crush aside, Eliot'll do whatever he has to in order to  _keep_ Nate that way. "Thanks, man."

"No problem. And I won't babble about it as much as I can help it, I promise."

"That means a lot."

"I guess Dubenich overheard us in the lecture hall," Eliot blurts, remembering 'My _name is Nathan Ford and I am a thief'_ with sadness and self-loathing and  _fuck_  his lack of brain-to-mouth filter

"It's not your fault." Nate's smile is tight, mirroring some of that self-loathing Eliot's feeling.

"Well, I kind of disagree right now. But-" Eliot squints at Nate. "With these daddy issues, couldn't you have chosen a career that  _wouldn't_  clash with your father's, uh, career ventures so much? Like. I don't know. Insurance?"

"Me? In insurance?" Nate turns away from Eliot to stare out into the car park. "Either me, or someone close to me, would die. I'm pretty sure."

"Insurance is dire," Eliot agrees. "Still, it's kind of obvious what we have to do."

"It is?" Nate laughs that self-loathing laugh again, and it just strengthens Eliot's resolve.

"Yeah," Eliot says, and he gets to his feet, and holds out his hand. "Come on. Let's go to the garden. We need the others."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're going to get revenge for Dubenich making you steal those research notes by getting them back and somehow implicating him, thus providing a neat circle of closure for you and hopefully in the process redeeming your honest image amongst the media staff," Eliot says, without pausing to take a breath.

Nate squints at him and Eliot's outstretched hand.

"Something wrong?" Eliot asks.

"Yeah. Couldn't you have been... a bit more dramatic?"

"Like how?"

"I dunno. Like....  _Let's go steal the notes back_."

"You're so whiny when you're like this," Eliot tells him. "Now take my fucking hand and we're going to fucking go and fucking steal the fucking notes back."

"Uh-" Nate begins.

"Don't even say it," Eliot grinds out from between clenched teeth. "Let's just go and do whatever it is we're doing before your arse fuses to your mattress."

Nate takes Eliot's hand and lets him pull him up, except Eliot pulls too hard, and Nate nearly stumbles. Nate puts his hand out to stop himself, and ends up having his right palm flat on Eliot's chest. Eliot looks down at it, at the warmth spreading out from it, then at Nate's face, and Nate just smiles at him easily. "Thanks, Eliot," Nate says, and his voice is warm again, without that tone of despair or anger. Eliot could so overly over think this, so he lets his mind clear and just enjoys the moment. He just smiles back. There's time for thinking later. Right now, they've got work to do.

\- - - - -

"...and if we  _don't_  save Cora's reputation, then I'll fail my First Year and have to repeat it and you know what the First Year is like. It's not as much work as Second Year, and I'll be off having fun while you all are studying really hard for your Second Year essays, and I'll come back hung over and whiny while you're all working. Think about it."

Eliot had all their attention at the beginning of his impassioned plea to recruit his housemates to this evil wily scheme to regain Cora's reputation and boot Dubenich out on his hairy behind, but he's not so sure he still has it. In any case it's proof he's the  _King_ of Babble, and seriously,  _seriously,_ he's going to have to fight to stay on topic, stupid alcohol still whirring around in his bloodstream.

"Oh god, my liver," Eliot finishes his speech suddenly and sits down on the coffee table with a thump, dislodging a pile of spam post no one wanted to open, three cereal bowls which may have been cultivating new life forms and a broken hair straightener that Eliot is  _never_  copping to being the owner of. Nate shoots him a worried look. "Pre-emptive apology for the damage I've done to it today and yesterday," Eliot explains. " _And_  over the whole last five months. And my whole life."

Nate obviously relaxes, but only just a little.

"So?" Eliot says hopefully, fixing the other three with a look.

"Dude," Hardison says, "you had me from  _let's save Cora_. She's the nicest lecturer on campus. Foxy, too."

Parker fixes Hardison with a glare that could melt ice, and Hardison twitches.

"In a beast-like way, I mean," Hardison quickly backtracks. "She has teeth, and... a tail..." He winces, side-glances at Sophie who shakes her head with a clear 'Not _even the Pope is buying that'_  expression, and tries, "And orange hair?"

Parker's deathly expression subsides. Eliot just stares, because he hadn't realised there was a thing between Parker and Hardison, and also because if he starts talking he might start babbling again and Eliot isn't sure if they could  _stop_ him from talking this time.

"You had me at the part of the plan involving the security guards," Parker says, and Hardison lets out this noisy exhale of relief which just gets him a frosty glare from Parker again. He swallows audibly and hides his head in his laptop, typing noisily.

"Sophie?" Eliot prompts. She looks at him, her expression inscrutable, and Eliot's stomach sinks a little, because she's an important part of the plan.

"Of  _course_ I will," Sophie says, grinning widely as Eliot turns a little violet from holding his breath in anticipation. She gets to her feet. "You had  _me_  from I get to practice my acting."

Eliot watches her go out of the room, muttering about needing to find the perfect outfit, and he stares at the open door for a good minute. He doesn't stop staring even when Nate's hands find his shoulders and press down a little. "We either just unleashed the part of the plan that won't work," he says, still staring. "Or we unleashed a monster."

"Come on, Dr. Frankenstein. Let's prep." Eliot turns and smiles at Nate, who smiles back automatically, and Eliot's stomach twinges again, and maybe it's all the alcohol on a practically empty stomach making him feel so weird. Or maybe it's Nate, who's standing a little closer than he normally does. Eliot wants to say something but he doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth at the same time as Nate does, and Nate leans in a little, and Eliot has the stupidest, strangest thought again that maybe Nate's going to kiss him, but that's ridiculous, and then Hardison interrupts them.

"Look at this," Hardison calls across.

Nate jumps back as if he's been scalded, smoothing down his shirt even though there's nothing wrong with it, and Eliot gets to his feet, crossing the carpet with Nate to crouch around Hardison's laptop screen. The screen is blank.

"Uh," Eliot says, "Hardison, are you aware your laptop's not really on?"

"Behind you, I hooked it up to the TV; I just haven't paralleled the display to my notebook screen yet," Hardison says very slowly, as if everyone should know it.

Eliot turns to glance up at the widescreen TV on the wall that none of them are sure who it belongs to. There was a crap TV in one week, and then one day the giant TV just  _appeared_. The common Tower consensus is Parker, but Eliot has a sneaking suspicion it's Sophie's, because she was in a commercial for half a second, and she wasn't visible on the small TV screen but you can make her out on the larger screen. He keeps the theory to himself; if it  _is_  Sophie, she's liable to take it down or break it if someone calls her out on her screen vanity.

"So I cracked into Dubenich's bank account and checked out his credit card outgoings. The guy's in a lot of debt, but he did make one large purchase at IYS security. So I checked their website to find out what the payment can be, and including delivery I guess he's got this one." Hardison brings up a window to show a large safe, the kind that could be hidden behind furniture.

"Yeah," Nate says, "when I was in Dubenich's office earlier this evening giving him the papers, I noticed one section of carpet had an indent, like he moved his bookcase over to the other wall."

"You noticed one section of carpet had an indent," Eliot mutters, forgetting entirely about his crush on Nate and the idea that he should be  _nice_  to the guy he wants to do naked things with. "Who are you, Miss. Marple?"

"I was feeling guilty so I was staring at the floor," Nate says. "And if I was a detective, I'd be Ellery Queen."

"Ooh, I can see that."

"I thought I might dress up as him for Halloween."

"Yeah. You look good in red."

" _When_  you two have stopped flirting," Hardison says crossly. Eliot makes a sound of outrage, but settles his attention back on Hardison. There's some text scrolling up on the screen which doesn't make a lot of sense. There's a lot of semicolons in it for a start. "I've tagged a proxy into his account and hitched it to my mobile... Eliot, are you even listening?"

"Yeah," Eliot says defensively, even though he blatantly wasn't. (He was sort of counting the numbers of hairs on the base of Nate's neck although he will deny this to his grave.)  
"Well," Hardison says, " _what'd I say_?"

"You were explaining how you're still a virgin."

Hardison leaps at Eliot, and Nate has to stand bodily in the way. "This is not the time," Nate says, pushing Hardison back down onto the armchair. "You can beat up Eliot later."

" _Hey_ ," Eliot protests, but without much heat, because he really does deserve it.

" _Anyway_ ," Hardison says heavily, "we'll get a text message if Dubenich buys anything else, but from what I'm guessing, he only had enough so far to buy the one safe. Which sounds like is in his office."

"Which is the safe we have to get to," Sophie says from the doorway. They all turn to her. She has her mobile in one hand. "I just spoke to Tara Cole. She works part time on the university administration staff, and overheard Dubenich's meeting with the president. Cora said her notes were handwritten, but she couldn't produce them. Dubenich mentioned _his_  notes—which were pitiful—were all typewritten.  _But_  Tara checked Dubenich's requisitions over the last year. He has an OCR scanner that has to stay in his office."

"So that's why he kept the notes in his safe," Nate says. "So he can finish scanning them and then destroy the notes. That means we have to go with the plan."

"So... we're sneaking past security guards," Eliot says. "Awesome. I mean, what could go wrong?"

"They'll probably shoot Nate in the face," Parker says, cheerfully.

Nate exhales through closed teeth. "I'm  _standing right here._ "

Parker just shrugs. Nate opens his mouth to say something.

"All right, people!" Eliot claps his hands. "Let's uh, go... um..." His voice trails off. He looks at Nate. "Guys, this moment is epic. It needs to be dramatic. So I'm stealing a quote from someone I admire greatly."

"And who would that be?" Nate prompts.

"Joss Whedon, of course," Eliot says, and starts to stride out of the door. "Let's be bad guys!"

 

\- - - - 

It's cold as Eliot and Hardison weave between the bicycle bars and huddle next to the corner of the car park, squinting at Weymouth house a hundred paces away. There are two security guards ahead with baseball caps and torches. Eliot shivers while Hardison complains bitterly under his breath.

Nate and Parker went on ahead, deploying Sophie in the Open Access Centre as backup. Parker refused to tell anyone but Nate her plan, so Eliot's quite curious. He crouches down besides a bush, and gestures for Hardison to join him.

"Man, really?" Hardison hovers on the dark path, indecisive, then plunges into the undergrowth with his eyes closed. He only opens them when he's next to Eliot.

"It's 1am exactly," Eliot says. "Time for Nate and Parker to do their thing."

Even though they're a distance away, Eliot can hear Nate and Parker clearly. They're screaming and running as if for their lives.

"Oh, it's right behind us! It's right behind us!" Nate yells.

"Ahh! It's furry! It's big! It's chasing us! Get down. Aaah!" Parker yells beside him, windmilling her thin arms and shrieking like a spider is down her trousers.

The two security guards look at each other, and then immediately start running after Nate and Parker, their torchlight bobbing as they disappear into the main courtyard of the university.

"That's our cue," Eliot says. Hardison matches his pace as they run up to the building. When they reach the door, Hardison punches in a code to the number pad. Eliot stares as the door clicks open.

"I show people round the uni," Hardison says, "it's my job. How else do I afford all the computer bits I need? It's a generic code for the building, any one of sixty people have access to it."

Eliot shrugs. They take the stairs, not wanting to risk getting caught in the lifts, and Eliot heads for the third floor, where all the lecturers work. The sensors aren't on, because it's only  _students_  who aren't allowed in the building 24/7. Lecturers are allowed in whenever. Thankfully none of the lecturers are in.

Eliot swings around to the left of the horseshoe-shape of the building. He knows where Dubenich's office is because it's two doors down from the Head of Department's office, and Eliot has spent more time than he would care admit in Ian Blackpoole's office. Or waiting just outside it. Eliot goes straight for Dubenich's door and punches the code in.

"Okay, I'll bite,  _how_  did you know that code?" Hardison says.

"I never do the reading, all my work is always late, that's the naughty wall-" Eliot points behind him as he pushes open Dubenich's door, "-and so I spend a lot of time learning on that wall. Some things just stick in your memory."

Hardison follows him in and they let the door almost shut, keeping it slightly open with a spiky pot plant. Hardison uses his cell phone as a torch; putting the light on might ring some alarm bells from the courtyard below. "And you just _happened_  to see the codes."

"Okay," Eliot admits, "I was collecting them for a prank. I was planning on swapping the furniture around in the Easter break and confusing the lecturers." He goes to the edge of the bookcase and pushes at it experimentally.

Hardison pauses to stare at Eliot. Eliot preens. It's not often Hardison appreciates his genius as he should. "You do know you could have caused a similar level of mayhem with less work by just shifting the names on the doors? They slide right out."

"Oh," Eliot says, after a long moment. "Yeah, okay. Come help me move this thing."  
The bookcase is easy to move, and Eliot realises why when they do shift it away to find it—the very thin, very complicated looking safe that Hardison had showed them on the TV screen.

"Ha-ha! Just a four number combination; Dubenich is a cheapskate. I'm good, yeah, I'm good," Hardison singsongs, and dances a little on the spot, until Eliot glares at him and he stops. "Can't a brother celebrate?"

"Later when we don't have the chance of  _being caught_  over our heads," Eliot hisses.

Hardison takes a breath, probably to protest how unlikely such an event is, and they both hear it: Footsteps. At the end of the corridor.

"Shit," Hardison says, elucidating how Eliot is feeling neatly.

"Start trying the numbers," Eliot says, starting to inch forward, "I'm going to-"

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have a  _plan_. Well, he has a vague plan of signing up to Ai-Kido and Tae-Kwon Do next year when his fitness level is a bit higher, but that's a long term plan, and does nothing for the short term. They're going to be caught and this really doesn't look good.

The pot plant at the door trembles a little, and Eliot grabs for the nearest thing he can find and holds it up high, and Nate pokes his head through the door.

"Change of plan, children."

"Oh, Nate. Hey." Hardison waves, continuing to punch numbers in.

"What's the change of plan?" Eliot asks.

"Dubenich. He's downstairs."

" _What_?" Hardison starts typing faster, a small beep of denial sounding again from the machine. "Stupid thing. I've got 10000 possible combinations to work through here."

"Sophie's waylaying him," Nate says.

"Can she waylay him for the four hours I need?" Hardison demands.

"No," Nate says, moving over to Dubenich's desk. Eliot can't see him very well in the combination of the dim moonlight and the dimmer light of Hardison's mobile phone, but he can hear a click—Nate's done something in Dubenich's office, but Eliot can't figure out what. "Hardison, head back. Go down the front stairs; Sophie's directing him to the ones you came up. Eliot, let's put this office back as if we've never been here."

Hardison takes off, and Eliot joins Nate at the bookcase, pushing it back into position. He can hear footsteps again in the distance.

"Hurry," Eliot says, and Nate pushes the pot plant back into position, and the two of them flee across the hall. Eliot punches in the right set of numbers, and the two of them push through into the office and hide against the wall just in time.

They stay like that for a while, frozen, melded against the wall. Eliot looks down. Nate's hand is so close to his. He could stretch out his fingers, touch him, but the idea of what Nate would do keeps his hand frozen. Nate's dad is a homophobe; Nate said it himself. Nate might be more accepting, but it doesn't mean he would squeeze Eliot's hand in return.

After a while, when Dubenich doesn't come out of his office, Nate relaxes a little and crosses over to the main desk. His fingers trail something, and Nate freezes for a moment before releasing it and moving across the room again. Eliot looks across.  _CORA MCRORY_  is printed on a neat metal sign.

"We're going to save her," Eliot whispers, as loudly as he dares.

Nate looks across at him, his face splintered by shadows—the moonlight is on the other side of the building, Dubenich's side, but there's a streetlamp around the corner from Cora's window, and its diffracted light makes her room seem odd and disjointed. "We shouldn't have to. I should have been... Better, stronger... If I hadn't been thinking about myself so much-"

That's about all the self-hate from Nate that Eliot can bear, it's his absolute limit; he's crossing the floor before he can think about it, wrapping his arms around Nate and gripping him into a hug. Nate fights it for the longest second Eliot's ever lived through, but then he relaxes against Eliot, pushing his nose into his shoulder and shuddering a little, as if he's crying. When Nate lifts his head again, his eyes are dry.

"You're a good friend, Eliot," Nate says, in a strange detached tone. Eliot doesn't know what to make of it, so he just smiles at Nate, his hands still resting on Nate's hips, and it's terrible how easily Eliot could get addicted to that feeling.

Eliot should say something about what he's feeling, but paranoia tickles him stomach, and the moment is gone. "The plan?"

"The plan!" Nate pulls away. Eliot feels the loss immediately and he has to rest against the desk because his heart is pounding way too fast, even for what they're doing, sneaking around the building after hours. Eliot watches as Nate dips down behind Cora's desk, and he brings out something—her briefcase, the one that looks so much like Eliot's messenger bag, although Cora's briefcase is  _sans_  The Ultimate Showdown, of course.

Nate holds it up as he moves back towards Eliot. "I disconnected Dubenich's shredder and stole the plug. He's not going to risk keeping the notes on campus, because I'm known to be religious; a crisis of conscience is inevitable. I'd break and tell the university president where Cora's notes are. I could do it any time. If it happened tomorrow, and the notes were still there in her hand writing..."

"So he has to move them off campus, undetected... and he's got the same bag as all the other lecturers." Eliot looks at the bag in Nate's hands. "So how are we going to switch them?"

"Easy," Nate says. "We're going to let Dubenich catch us and we're going to start a fight."

Eliot squints at him. "I don't think the word  _easy_  means what you think it does."

"We're going to have to wait a while, though," Nate says. "Sophie found out from Tara that Dubenich only provided about 10% of the notes typewritten to the president. So he'll be scanning the other 90% tonight. I know that model of scanner, it takes a while to load and scan the pages and transfer them into text."

"So what are we talking about?" Eliot says, envisioning  _weeks_  of being in Cora's office, trapped with Nate, and the vision isn't too bad, except for the part about, well, eating.

"About the four hours we were envisioning," Nate says.

"Great," Eliot says, trying not to let the surly note hit his voice, although his growling stomach provides the protest for him.

"Our original plan had a four hour wait," Nate says. "I had a contingency plan for it not happening, but I also had a plan for it happening."

Nate reaches into the pockets of his coat, and they must be seriously deep pockets because he throws something that looks quite large at Eliot's head.

Eliot catches it, and stares at the contents of his hands.

" _Poptarts_ ," Eliot breathes, and because he can't stop himself he adds, too loudly, "Oh my god, I  _love_ you." Eliot freezes in the middle of ripping open the lovely, lovely blue box and its amazing contents, wondering if he did actually just say... _that..._  out loud.

Nate's shaking his head in amusement, obviously not aware of the momentous crap that's just gone down, and he's opening a bag of crisps. "If I need to get you and the Poptarts a room, let me know," Nate says, and Eliot breathes more easily, because Nate can't know what Eliot just discovered, no way.

As much as he's been denying it, it's the truth, and he can't keep shooting it down. Because it's not just a crush. Eliot's in _love_  with Nate.

Well, bloody hell bugger shit  _wank_.

\- - - - -

Thankfully Eliot can use the excuse of having to stay quiet otherwise they'll be caught, because he's finally found the one thing that can actually shut him up—his brain. Which is going faster than his mouth can work.

The signs have all been there, the clues have been painted larger than billboards, and Eliot's said it enough of himself that he's an idiot, and he really, really is. He's in love with Nate. The  _forever_  kind. The  _listening to stupid crappy love songs in the dark_  kind. The  _this is going to break my heart_  kind.

He chews the Poptarts thoughtfully, trying to make them last the four hours; they last ten minutes. Nate consoles him and tells him in a whisper it's still a  _record_  for Eliot, which is true.

The rest of the time is painful. And Nate wants him to pitch a  _fight_  with him? What could he even be pissed off about with him?

 _His weirdness_ , Eliot thinks, as his brain slows down, adjusting to the weird realisation of being in love with Nathan Ford. _How weird he's been, and why he wouldn't tell me_. Nate's probably expecting a  _fake_  fight, but if Eliot can actually gain something from it, then it'll be a double-win.

Plus, the anger makes the love-thingy pale a little.

Only a very little.

Eliot edges a small look to the side to see what Nate's doing to pass the time. He seems to be doing a scribble of  _The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny_  on a scrap piece of paper. Eliot's heart does this little flippy thing in his chest, so he tries to get angry again.

There's a sound of shuffling from Dubenich's office, and Nate shoves the picture he's doodling into his pocket. He doesn't look at Eliot as he says, "Make the fight about what I've done. It'll work better."

Eliot stares as Nate takes the lead at sneaking back out of Cora's office, but he follows when Nate indicates they shuffle a few meters back, giving them a 'run up' for their fight. Eliot's stomach is really boiling at Nate telling him what to be angry about. Well, he's got Nate's secrets to fight about later. This has to look good, for Cora.

Nate nods at him, and Eliot gets it—it's more believable for Dubenich to come out of his office to see what the fuss is about.

"I can't believe you got us locked in, you're a  _total_  moron." Eliot shoves Nate a little. "How many things are you going to keep screwing up today? Or am I next in line after Cora?"

"There's got to be a lecturer still up on this floor," Nate says, raising his voice.

" _There's got to be a lecturer still up on this floor,_ " Eliot mimics in a whinier version, mentally thanking Parker for the idea. "Nathan Ford, the brains of the outfit, who has the stupidest ideas in the  _history of mankind_."

"Is this about that other thing? Are you going to  _make it_  about that other thing? I can't believe you, I feel bad enough about it. I  _told_  you why I can't come clean to the president. My dad is the biggest jerk on the  _planet_  and I would never work again!" Nate's howling now, and Eliot goes blank for a second he's so impressed. "And I might be screwing  _up, but_ -"

Eliot breaks in, because that turn of phrase usually means the person is going to start turning on their opponent, and Eliot's not in any kind of a mood to hear even his  _fictional_  faults from the man he, oh crap, is still in love with. Apparently that doesn't go away. "Wah-wah-wah, it's all about  _me,_  Nathaniel Ford." Nate shoots him  _the_  dirtiest look and Eliot dances inside his head a little because  _score_  he's hit a true note in all the crazy. "Ooh, my grades are so low I have to study all night, it's freaking First Year, Nate. 10% of our marks go towards the next year. You can  _sleep_  through most of these exams and still do okay."

"Well at least I-" Nate starts, looking genuinely angry for a moment there, oops; thankfully Dubenich takes this moment to burst through the door, and Eliot's relieved that this fight is going to end, but  _no_ —Nate launches himself at Eliot, slamming him into the nearest wall, and Eliot is going to have to really work his best to keep this as a fight, because he's actually a little turned on, and so the mock fight they have now, arms and elbows and wow, Nate really seems to be going at it, is more for Eliot a fight to keep Nate's body  _anywhere_  from his crotch, because, yeah. Awkward.

Nate flips them and shoves Eliot towards Dubenich, and Eliot and Dubenich actually totter into the nearest wall.

"THIS IS ENOUGH!" Dubenich roars. Eliot and Nate fall silent. And while Dubenich is eyeballing Nate, Eliot switches the briefcases. "WHAT IS THIS ABOUT?"

"He got us locked in-" Eliot yells, pointing.

"He's a complete douchebag-" Nate yells at the same time.

Dubenich looks like he's swallowed a lemon whole. "I do not have time for this. Boys, follow me." He grabs what he thinks is his briefcase closer, and Eliot and Nate nod, looking appropriately apologetic, and do so.

Eliot leans against the wall of the lift as Dubenich presses the Ground floor button. Nate has a pencil out now and is surreptitiously drawing on the briefcase in his hands, the one which must have Cora's notes in, the one Eliot slid him as they got into the lift. Eliot recognises the head of King Kong, and Indiana Jones using his whip, and he frowns. Nate sees it and makes a shushing gesture with his finger; this must be part of the new plan.

Eliot doesn't get it until the lift opens and they see the police at the end of the corridor.

And the president of the university, Patrick Bonnano.

And Sophie, Parker and Hardison lounging somewhere behind.

Dubenich freezes. Nate blithely ushers him out of the lift, flicks the emergency lever so the lift won't be going  _anywhere_ for a while, and he and Eliot stand at the doors just in case Dubenich  _tries_. Nate yanks out the shoulder strap of the briefcase and pushes it around Eliot's neck, and Eliot smiles, because now it makes sense. There is nowhere for Dubenich to go but towards the police, or to try and run out of the Emergency Exit, which will just look incredibly suspicious.

" _You_ ," Dubenich hisses, " _you_  have something to do with this." He turns, pokes Nate in the chest with his finger, looking murderous.

"Hey!" Eliot protests. Dubenich glances edgewise at Eliot.

"You're too stupid to have anything to do with this," Dubenich mutters.

" _Hey_ ," Eliot says again, but without heat.

Dubenich eyes the entrance, and then turns back to the police who are moving forwards, and he shudders. Then he glances again at Eliot, thoughtfully. "Boy, Spencer. I'll swap my bag for your briefcase in return for you never having to sit an exam this year at all. There'll be make-up essays, but you'll get a great score. 10% of your degree secure could be all you need to ensure you pass."

Eliot stares, because is Dubenich  _blackmailing_  him? He thought Dubenich would just forcibly swap the bags. But then, Dubenich would want to ensure Eliot wouldn't tell the cops about it. "Okay," Eliot says. "Deal."

He holds out the bag and Dubenich switches them just in time for the police to come through the last set of double doors.

"Victor Dubenich," one of the cops say. "If you would come with us for a little chat."

"I suppose Cora McRory has accused me of something else," Dubenich says dramatically. "Is this chat... mandatory?"

"Let's just say we can do it in my office," President Bonnano says, "or down at these lads' station."

Dubenich smiles weakly.

\- - - - -

Bonnano lets Nate and Eliot stay a while, even though he sent Parker, Hardison and Sophie away. He mutters something about wanting to give them detention and then buy them a drink, and lets them hang around his small kitchen so the police can come get their statement once they're done with Dubenich.

The kitchen is awesome, because they can hear some of the conversation through a small grate. Sophie must have done her job well tipping off the police and Bonnano; the moment Dubenich opens his briefcase to see Cora's notes and  _his_ stuff is hilarious. He yells about being set up, but Dubenich's name is stitched inside the bag, and his mobile phone is in there, and a bunch of other stuff.

Then the police start listing his rights, and Eliot sinks against the counter, trying not to laugh too loudly, because the grate probably works both ways. He looks across at Nate, who isn't suppressing laughter; he has an odd expression again, and just like that, Eliot's the one who's pissed off this time.

"What's  _wrong_  with you today?" Eliot asks, shuffling closer and bumping Nate with his shoulder. Normally Nate bumps him back, but this time he looks stiff, and his arms are wrapped around himself like there is something really wrong. "Dubenich is going to jail with this, you should be psyched. But instead... I mean, even  _before_  Dubenich used you, you were pissed off with me."

Nate shrugs, and let's his arms fall uselessly to his side. "It doesn't matter."

"Saying  _it doesn't matter_  implies there is something that could be mattered about," Eliot says, turning to him. Nate stays leaning against the edge of the sink, staring forwards. "I don't understand. You've been pissed off at  _me_ , it feels like, mostly all day and it's mushing my poor brain. If you're not okay with me being gay-"

"It's not that," Nate says, terse and gruff. "Can't you just leave it alone?"

"If that's what you want," Eliot says, unevenly. The idea of Nate having a secret too horrible to tell him is churning his stomach. He wants to grab Nate's shoulders and shake the truth out, but Eliot can't have too much stock in this impulse; he wants to touch Nate all the time anyway, he doesn't need any extra impetus. "But I just want to say I'm your friend, I was hoping I was your  _best_  friend, and that means if you have something you want to say, you can say it. Anytime. And if you want me to leave it alone, you can just say that too. It just... kills me that I don't understand why you're pissed off at me."

"I'm not pissed off at you," Nate mutters, but it comes out flat, like a lie. "I'm-"

"I told you my biggest secret," Eliot says, which is true, because at the time  _I'm gay_  had been his biggest secret. The other secret, that he loves Nate, is one of those secrets that could do more damage than good. It would be selfish to tell Nate, so he holds it in. He can't think of any secret Nate has which could be  _this_  bad, unless Nate really does hate gay people. Or he knows how Eliot feels about him and can't figure out how to gently let him down. "Okay, my secret wasn't so huge, although it was to  _me_ , but-"

"You really want to know?" Nate turns to face him then, and he looks so  _scared_ , Eliot hates himself suddenly for being so pushy. Nate's eyes are scanning Eliot's face like he's a page in a textbook, like he can  _read_  Eliot, and Eliot feels warm all over, because if Nate  _can_ , if Nate can read him like that, he'll be able to read everything about him, and that's so much less scary a thought than it should be. "You're a blockhead."

" _That's_  your secret?" Eliot stares. "It's not really a secret, Nate. I'm on  _YouTube_  demonstrating it quite a lot." He thinks guiltily of that first video on YouTube, of the giant bunny and the empty beer keg, and he winces internally; the shame of that incident will  _never go away_.

Nate makes this frustrated sound through clenched lips, and he steps closer, until all Eliot can see is Nate's very blue eyes. "You're a complete  _moron_. The reason I've been so pissed off at you today is-"

Nate swallows, hard, and Eliot's eyes track the movement automatically, and then he can't make much more sense of what he is seeing, because Nate says, " _This_  is why I've been so pissed off at you today," and kisses him.

Eliot's brain automatically shuts down. This is his life's purpose, completely fulfilled in Bonnano's tiny staff kitchen. He stands there, frozen in wonder, as Nate's mouth moves over his, slanting up to meet him. Nate's hands flutter uncertainly at Eliot's hip, and then Eliot can feel them tense, and the truth of it washes over Eliot in a joyful surge; Nate's just freaking out at Eliot not responding, and how could Nate  _not_  know how much Eliot wants to respond?

Because he isn't responding yet, duh. Nate makes his ragged sound against Eliot's mouth, and Eliot moves in quickly, kissing back desperately, his hands coming up to clench into Nate's shirt. He shouldn't be doing this, because Nate's probably just kissing him out of desperation, out of some idea that Dubenich is going to turn him in and his life is going to be ruined; or maybe it's out of pity, like he thinks he might lose Eliot. Either way, this might be the only time in his life he gets to kiss Nathan Ford, so Eliot's not going to waste a second of it.

Eliot tugs Nate closer, moving his legs apart, letting Nate push in between them. Nate's hands are in his hair, and Nate kisses the same way he studies—with full concentration and intent. Eliot's never laughed into a kiss before but he does now; he can't believe how happy he is in this moment. Nate takes advantage of the laugh to sweep his tongue into Eliot's mouth, and Eliot tries not to think, just to feel, and it feels amazing. Even when Nate eventually clams up and realises what he's actually doing, and runs away from Eliot and back into himself, there'll be no kiss in Eliot's life that will ever measure up to this one, even though Eliot's faintly sure he'll have a fairly substantial bruise from the edge of the counter digging into his back.

There's only one thing Eliot's sure of: that if possible, he wants to do this until the end of time.

Of course, that's when Bonnano coughs from the doorway, not even bothering to be delicate about it. Nate jumps away from Eliot immediately, his face a flushed crimson; Eliot grins at Bonnano, putting as much of his  _aw, shucks_  country charm into the grin as possible. Bonnano shakes his head ruefully.

"The police want your statements now," Bonnano says. "Not that they really need them, FYI. Dubenich has pretty much hung, drawn and quartered himself. Delivering the evidence by  _hand_  to the police. It's all very odd of him to do  _entirely by himself_." Bonnano finishes his sentence by glaring at them pointedly. Eliot swallows and nods; Bonnano knows they had something to do with it. "See me later for that drink."

"Um," Eliot says quickly, "I'm not allowed to drink alcohol again."

Bonnano shrugs, and leaves the room. One of the cops comes in for them then, asking for Nate first, and Nate sweeps out of the room without even looking at Eliot. Eliot's legs finally give out and he sinks to the floor, shaking. He touches one finger to his lips, not knowing whether he should be feeling wonder or dread.

\- - - - -

The police give them a ride back to the Tower. Eliot drums his fingers on his knees, and Nate stares stonily ahead the whole way. Eliot opens his mouth a dozen times to say something, to break this tension, and he can't.

They turn onto the main road that leads to their street and Eliot thinks, desperately,  _fuck it_. If Nate's going to be this robot forever, then nothing Eliot does is going to make it any worse.

"We need to talk," Eliot says, all in a rush.

Nate makes this choked sound in the back of his throat. "Yeah," he says, in this odd, hateful voice.

Eliot tenses at the sound of it, but he's in this far, there's no turning back now. "About how I feel about you. About how..." his voice cracks "...how you feel about me. Because this is important to me. I can't screw this up, and I can't..." He swallows, his throat a pile of sand. "I can't lose you."

Nate looks at him then, a tiny bit of hope creeping into his expression, but the car stills, and that hope flitters away like it never existed. Eliot frowns, and realises Nate is looking beyond him; he turns to see what Nate is looking at, and Damien Moreau is sat on the wall in front of the Tower.

"Okay," Nate says, his voice even and tight. "Okay, I'll talk to you later in the morning."

Eliot can feel Nate pulling away from him even though neither of them has moved, and he hates it—his hand snaps forwards and he's encircling Nate's wrist before he's even thought about doing so. "Hey," Eliot says, gently, "give me ten minutes and we're having that talk."

Nate doesn't say anything more, he just nods and sweeps out of the car, stalking quickly up the main path to the door. Eliot clambers out of the car, thanks the cops for the ride, and they drive off. Eliot watches them go, and turns to Moreau.

Moreau's quirking one eyebrow at him. "Looks like you had quite a night without me."

Eliot can't believe his aborted attempt at sex in the toilets with Moreau was only twelve hours ago. "These things just _happen_  to me, I swear," Eliot says, holding his hands up.

Moreau jumps down from the wall. "I heard all about it already. Your friend Hardison emailed pretty much  _everyone in the world_. I came to apologise."

"Huh?" Eliot blinks. "I should be... the one apologising to  _you_."

"Nothing to apologise for." Moreau steps forwards and takes Eliot's hands in his. It should be a nice feeling, but Eliot feels nothing. When Nate touches him, even a little, Eliot feels the friction of it, the electricity. It's a shame, because in another life, Moreau would be his perfect guy, Eliot's pretty sure. "I'm the one who asked you on a date when clearly your mind was working out this heist of yours. It's really kind of sexy." Moreau leans his face in closer. "I... may have been too presumptuous last night. I normally only do one-night stands, but you... I'm intrigued, Spencer. I think you and I could make some magic." Moreau's fingertips trace over Eliot's wrist.

Eliot pulls his hands out and steps back. "I'm..." He thinks of the right lie to tell, to try and pacify Moreau, because that seems like a good idea. Moreau really  _could_  be dangerous given the right trigger, and Eliot doesn't want someone like Moreau pissed off at him, but he also needs to tell the truth. "I'm sort of in love with someone else; it wouldn't be fair."

It feels good to say the words out loud; moreover,  _Moreau-over_ , it cements them in Eliot's brain. He can't even think of anyone else any more. Nathan Ford has damaged him for  _life_.

"Ford. I knew he liked you," Moreau says, automatically. "Well, it was worth a try. Let me know if Ford is an idiot. You have my card."

Moreau turns to go to his car. The words ring something in Eliot's brain. He digs in his pocket and comes out with the fistful of numbers he got at The Warehouse. "Here," Eliot says, jogging the few steps to him and tapping him on the shoulder. Moreau takes the papers before even knowing what they are. "Numbers from some of the guys who approached me at The Warehouse. They should be good for more of the one-night stand thing," he adds, his ears going red at the memory of some of the things some of the guys said to him.

"Oh, wow," Moreau says, looking a little off-put. "Now I  _don't_ want to date you. This is more of a... father-figure gesture."

"Go and get laid, my son," Eliot jokes.

"No, I want to date you again," Moreau says. "I'll call you daddy in bed?"

Eliot squints. "Isn't that a bit awkward? What about your  _real_  daddy? What if you accidentally thought of him while in the middle of an orgasm?"

Moreau grins. "I really  _did_  miss a catch with you. It wouldn't be a problem. I never knew my parents, I was adopted by the state, had a handful of foster parents up until I was sixteen."

"Huh," Eliot says, not at the idea of Moreau not knowing who his parents are, more because he's remembering something Sophie said.  _Oh, you're going on a date with him... Go slow with him. His dad's a homophobe so he has some real issues about being gay._ She meant Nate, not Moreau.

"I still can't believe you'd rather date Ford than me," Moreau says, somewhat loudly, and Eliot doesn't get why Moreau would say that, actually, because it doesn't flow well in the conversation. Moreau winks at him, climbs into his car and speeds off. Eliot stares, trying to think it through, because that was weird of Moreau, why would he say that loud unless—

When Eliot whirls on his feet, Nate's standing there in the doorway to the Tower. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is warm, a little ragged, when he says, "Eliot. Come inside. We've had a long night and it's time to rest."

Except resting is obviously not on Nate's mind. Their shared living space is empty. Eliot wonders if Nate's arranged it that way, or if everyone else is unconscious in their rooms—it really  _has_  been a long night.

Nate stands in the middle of the room, and Eliot stands a pace or so opposite from him.

"You  _overheard_." Eliot doesn't even try and make it into a question.

"A little," Nate says uncomfortable. "Enough to know you... Moreau said..." Nate's skin is flushed. "I really hope I didn't hear it wrong. You like me?

Eliot wants to hide his head in the sand, or make a strangled sound of despair, but the whiskey hangover is starting to descend and the dull pain of it beginning makes him feel dangerous, on the edge. Like he can do  _anything_. "He seems to think you like me too."

The  _too_  makes Nate's breath hitch, and Eliot's heart does this weird jig against his rib cage and please,  _please_  let this be real, Eliot thinks.  _Please_  let me not have to pretend this away later and blame the alcohol.

Nate turns away, staring at the tangled mess of dishes that haven't been washed in possibly forever. "Moreau's right," Nate says, so very quietly, but Eliot hears it regardless. Nate's fingers are fisted in his coat.

"You're gay," Eliot breathes.

Nate's whole posture is stiff and tense. Eliot watches the line of his shoulders shudder. "Yes," Nate admits.

"Why didn't you  _say_  anything?" Eliot says, thumping his shoulder. "I could have- we could have-"

Nate turns back at that, his eyes dull, his expression blank. "Yes," Nate says, "you coming out was  _totally_  you saying that you were into me."

"How have you  _missed_  the hours I've logged staring at your arse? Seriously?"

Nate makes a sound halfway between a laugh and an exhale. It's a sound of full relief, and he turns, fully. The dull expression is brighter now, his eyes sharp blue, a small smirk on his face that still has too much a sour note for Eliot's liking. "Your little tiny coming out speech, by the way? That was like closing the door after the horse has bolted."

"A  _country_ metaphor." Eliot grabs at one of Nate's hands, holds it between his own. "You  _love_  me."

And Eliot's sort of joking, until Nate says, really fast, in this raw, open voice, "I really kind of do; that's the problem."

There's a million ways this can go down, and Eliot's heart is thumping so loud he can't hear his own brain, so it's not  _his_ fault the vague brain-to-mouth filter he's been working on doesn't even engage, and he says, before he can stop himself, "How can that be a problem?" And of course, this being a day ending in y, Eliot's babbling. "I know I'm a dork and I have a babbling problem and I inhale Poptarts like they're oxygen and seriously if oxygen tasted  _that_  good I would never stop breathing  _ever_ , not even stopping to  _die_ , I would be a zombie just to keep breathing—do zombies breathe? Oh, fuck, maybe if  _brains_  tasted like Poptarts, I would definitely sign up to be a zombie, fuck the idea of saving you guys to the moon and back I'd be first in line, and-"

Nate employs what Eliot is going to forever affectionately refer to as the  _best shutting up technique ever_. He kisses him.

It's brief, just lips to lips, and Eliot's babble curls to a halt in his mouth, because their awkward first kiss aside, Nathan Ford is a  _hell_  of a kisser.

"-that might be even better than Poptarts," Eliot breathes, his fingers curling into Nate's t-shirt of their own accord.

"Fiction," Nate says solemnly, "fiction and  _lies_." But he pulls Eliot in for another kiss anyway, and Eliot can feel his smile.

Eliot is about to suggest they take it upstairs (only so that they don't blind Parker; he's content with just kissing Nate forever for the moment) so of course now is the time the doorbell goes.

Except Nate's obviously just as frustrated, as he yells, "Well, bloody hell bugger shit  _wank_."

Eliot stares at him.

" _What_ ," Nate snaps, and then grins. "You're rubbing off on me."

\- - - - -

It's Cora and Mikel at the door, and they're both gratefully effusive. Eliot stares for the most of their thank you babbling, astounded, because if  _adults_  babble then he's a total lost cause.

He really hopes Cora's going to wind it all up soon, because he's got better plans. Like sleeping. And kissing. Kissing _really_ needs to fit into his top five somewhere. Or maybe that should be just  _kissing Nate_.

Finally, after thanking Hardison, Parker, Sophie and Nate individually, she turns to Eliot.

"And you, you crazy person, you did it for me." Cora kisses him on the cheek and then looks bashful. "Thank you, Eliot."

"It was for  _you_  I did it, all the important lessons you taught me," Eliot says dramatically, because Sophie told him he should and he can fit a whole Poptart in his mouth in one go, so who out of him and Sophie must be the smartest, huh?

"Name one," Cora says, squinting.

The clever one must be Eliot, then. "POSTMODERNISM," Eliot says, "it's uh, very, enlightening, and ironic, and-"

"That's what I thought," Cora says, rolling her eyes. "Next seminar, you're leading the reading. Consider it my gift to you, Spencer."

Eliot smiles until Mikel bundles Cora off. His smile fades and he closes the door. "Dude," he says to Nate, "We are  _so fucked._  If this reading is on the exam we're all going to have big fat zeroes."

"Come on," Nate says, and his voice and eyes are soft, and Eliot's body turns to liquid. "Let's go upstairs and have that talk."

"Ew," Hardison says as Eliot beams widely.

"It's  _not a metaphor for sex_ ," Eliot protests automatically.

"Really?" Nate whispers into his ear, and Eliot's knees go wobbly beneath him.

Eliot follows Nate up the stairs, and they head into Nate's room automatically, which is probably a good idea.

He's nervous all of a sudden, so he resorts to his usual thing when he's nervous: talking.

"Alcohol would be awesome right now," Eliot says, holding his liver hopefully, like it might hold up for another binge session if he's been a good boy.

Nate leans against his desk. "Don't you remember the rule?"

"Oh. Yeah.  _Eliot Spencer will never drink again in his life._ " Eliot pulls a face, because the rule sucks. Then again, he remembers YouTube, and the 4521 hits he clocked on the site on one particular video that he might have checked on Nate's smartphone during the wait for Dubenich, and maybe, just maybe the rule has merit.

" _I'd_  kill for sugar," Nate says idly. "Except  _someone_  ate all the Poptarts in existence."

"I did not," Eliot says.

"I'm not sure you're speaking English right now."

Eliot squints at him, and tries to clarify himself. "I didn't eat all the Poptarts."

"...excuse me?"

"I didn't eat  _all_  the Poptarts," Eliot says, much slower.

"That's what I  _thought_  you said," Nate says. "I... don't quite get it? Did you bathe in some of them? Oh, god, you did; you _bathed_  in them, you're a total freak-"

"No, no, no." Eliot shakes his head. "No, I saved some. In case of emergency. I'll get the packet, it's in the drawer with my textbooks. You can have one."

Nate's eyes move slowly to meet Eliot's. "...  _Emergency Poptarts._ "

"...yes?"

Nate rolls his eyes. "My boyfriend is an idiot."

Eliot grins to agree, and then his brain, as usual, kicks in way too late. "Hang on... boyfriend?"

Nate looks at him steadily, and Eliot looks back, at the relaxed line of Nate's shoulders, and the sun rifling through his curly hair from the window, and the warmth in the blue eyes he's always lo-, fuck it, he  _loves_ Nate's eyes just like he fucking loves the rest of him, and Nate's smile wavers a little, curls at the edge, even as his gaze doesn't waver and Eliot realises then just what a fucking asshole he's being. Because Nate said  _boyfriend_ , and that means it wasn't just panic making them be all sentimental and crazy. It means they've been on the same page for way longer than Eliot has ever dared dream. "Boyfriend," Nate repeats, and there it is, a small waver, of definite paranoia, and Eliot's heart leaps joyfully.

"Just checking," Eliot says, and slides in, pushing his arms around Nate's body and smiling at him until the waver in Nate's smile disappears, until it's a full-on grin. "I... hoped that  _was_  what you said, but I got paranoid."

"Yeah, I-" Nate twinges, like he's fighting the urge to duck his head. "I empathise."

"I know," Eliot says. "And I- What I was meaning. About the Poptarts. I..."  _I love you,_  is what he wants to say, but he's totally paranoid, choked by it. He loves Nathan Ford, and it's  _got_  to be too soon to say the words. "I... want you to have my Emergency Poptarts. If... you'll have them."

"Eliot, I-"

"I want you to be able to have them  _forever_ ," Eliot says, and shuts up, because that definitely  _is_  too much, and he wants to blame the Poptarts, but it's definitely his runaway brain that apparently thinks letting his mouth say and sing whatever the hell it likes is an  _awesome plan_ , urgh.

Nate smiles like Eliot's said what he's actually thinking, though, and he kisses Eliot, his mouth warm and possessive, hungry.

"Offering me one of your Poptarts," Nate murmurs. "It  _must_  be love."

So apparently Eliot doesn't need to say the actual words. Nate already knows. Eliot fists one hand in the curling hair at the base of Nate's skull, the other in the material of Nate's t-shirt, and he pulls Nate in closer, licking into Nate's mouth until Nate lets him in, and Nate fights back, making quiet noises contentedly into Eliot's mouth because apparently kissing is one of Nate's babble triggers, except his mouth is occupied, who knew?  _Me,_  Eliot thinks.  _I know this now_.

Eliot pulls away, resting his forehead against Nate's, finding it hard to keep his breathing measured. Nate's hands curl around Eliot's forearms.

"I'll give up the Emergency Poptarts in favour of keeping you," Nate says, his breathing just as disordered, and kisses Eliot again in punctuation. Eliot just smiles into the kiss, because, well... even if the alcohol rule gets broken again, or his mouth runs away with him, or the world is a million times odder than usual, it's still something that Eliot think he can manage. And with Nate by his side? He's  _sure_  of it.


End file.
